


Chips To Cash In

by that_RedRedWhite



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Homophobia, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Men at Baffling Odds With Their Feelings, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Past Drug Addiction, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Tension, Thomas Jefferson is Not an Asshole, Though He Gives It His Best Shot, Unreliable Narrator, like woah, past minor character death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_RedRedWhite/pseuds/that_RedRedWhite
Summary: There's only one way for him to truly win this.Jefferson and him have always been at each other's throats. Quite simply, they hate each other's guts. But what can he do when his world turns upside down, and the only way to promise himself a way out of this quagmire is to rely on Jefferson for help?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past lams
Comments: 121
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me after I re-watched the movie The Proposal. Those of you with a keen eye might have already spotted that in the tags. XD Mr. Gilbertson will be making a cameo.  
> I've taken some creative liberties with the backstories, also I sort of headcanon this at 2017~ish. It's reality reliant, so keep that in mind.  
> Other tags and additional warnings might come up so check the a/n just in case. I'll do my best to keep them short and organized.  
> This is my first work in over 7 years, so I'm still a bit rusty. To be honest, I thought this was going to be a cute 10k RomCom piece and that I'll post the complete work when I'm done, but now I'm 30k in, and only like 2/3 finished. XD 
> 
> Mad thanks to my new beta @CallmeDJ, and Jvshem for also going over it.
> 
> I want to mention a special thanks to my friend Wiebel for inspiring me to write again, being my sounding board this past month, and suffering through my endless lyric quoting. XD Thank you <3

Hamilton is on his doorstep, looking all distressed and in disarray.

Well, to be fair, that  _ is _ how the man looks just about eighty-five percent of the time. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise to see him at his usual disheveled self, considering that for the few years Thomas has been working beside him, he knew the man to lead an appalling lifestyle consisting of highlighted attributes such as; going days with barely any sleep, talking until he was blue in the face, barely eating, and  _ has this man EVER heard of a fashion magazine? _ Hamilton’s ties would almost consistently sport a number of shallow creases Thomas itches to iron out. His suits, the poor things, were in even worse condition; the cheap fabric always gave the impression he hadn’t bothered to store them properly after they returned from the dry cleaning, instead choosing to haphazardly shove them into the closet one atop the other. That is, assuming, he at least has the common sense to even send them to the dry cleaners in the first place. Which- Thomas imagines, if he had to wager a guess- Hamilton hasn't done since the last gala they had all attended under Washington's request almost three months ago.  _ Urgh. _

"And what, pray tell, do you want?" Thomas sneers, keeping his hand on the door in case Hamilton says something warranting slamming it in his face. Which, knowing Hamilton this long, is very likely.

"Look," the disheveled man sighs and runs a hand over his disorderly hair, only helping to dislodge more of the brown strands from his low ponytail. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I had any other choice. And I mean  _ ANY _ other choice, but I really don’t. You're the only one they would remotely believe and I need a strong case or they'll never let me, time is of the essence and this is the last possible solution I could come up with on such short notice, I've looked through everything, and I mean  _ EVERYTHING _ , and I have nowhere else to turn-"

"For the love of- will you take a breath?! Please? If not for your health, then, at the very least, for my sanity?!" Thomas will never understand how Hamilton’s tiny frame is even physically capable of storing so much air in his lungs. He can already feel a headache brewing.

At this, Hamilton almost looks apologetic, shuffling his feet and bowing his head, almost as though he means to curl in on himself. It’s… odd. And spikes Thomas's curiosity higher, making him wonder what could it be the man is trying to request of him that makes him so... not himself. 

"Can- Can I please come in?" Hamilton whispers, gazing up from beneath his lashes.

By god, he looks so helpless.

Thomas sighs and turns to walk in the direction of his living room. He doesn’t bother with waiting for Hamilton, knows the shorter man will take the nonverbal cue for what it is. Hamilton, as expected, steps in and closes the door behind himself, then follows.

Thomas stops before his Wooster china cabinet and pulls out a decanter, one that currently hosted half a bottle of Amontillado sherry, pouring himself a hefty glass and leaving the crystal container as well as another glass at the center of the console table, for his guest to indulge in should he desire to. What? He's not a savage. He settles down to lounge across the lone armchair at the edge of the parlor, legs crossed and resting his temple on his free fist.

Quietly, Thomas takes a moment to observe his rival as the man looks about, taking in the new surroundings. It’s bizarre, to have Hamilton stand at the center of his living room. They rarely would meet outside of work, do not entertain the same company, and- thank God- don’t favor the same venues. For all that they work for the same paper and would occasionally collaborate on a column or article, they despise each other. Very rarely do they manage to let a meeting pass without turning it into a verbal warzone. There had never been an occasion where Hamilton needed to be invited to Thomas’ house before. 

Come to think of it, how did he even get his address? Never mind. Presumably from Lafayette, it makes the most sense. Thomas catches himself before he chuckles out loud at the face the Frenchman would have made at Hamilton, quite likely just as curiosity-filled as his own is right now. 

Upon closer inspection, Hamilton appears not just mentally off, but also physically worse for wear. The ever-present bags that adorn his eyes are more prominent, his clothes unkempt, as if he had raced to put them onto himself. Considering the time is half past midnight, that probably had indeed been the case. Hamilton is wringing his hands together nervously, long nimble fingers rubbing away at the dry skin of his knuckles. He has always been a bit fidgety, but now he reads as distraught, rather than containing that signature simmering energy Thomas is used to seeing in his aura. His eyes follow Hamilton’s hands as he pours himself a glass and downs it in one go. 

What a waste of good sherry. Hamilton better not badmouth him and claim he was a bad host after being such an atrocious guest. On top of being an uninvited one, to boot.

Thomas slowly sips at his wine, savoring the taste. He runs his tongue over his lips before concluding Hamilton isn’t going to start talking again without some prompting. "Well? A minute ago you couldn't shut up long enough to breathe if your life depended on it, and now you're just gonna stand there?"

"I need to ask you a favor," Hamilton eventually croaks. "And trust me, I wouldn’t have come here unless I was truly desperate." 

All at once, it’s as if Hamilton’s very essence has left him. His shoulders slump and he casts his eyes to the floor in shame. Thomas takes another sip of sherry. Hopefully, Hamilton will get a clue and just get to the point already.

"I need you to marry me."

Thomas chokes.

"I'm sorry, what?" His hand flies in front of him out of instinct, even though he didn’t actually spit out anything, coughing slightly.  _ What in the actual fuck, Hamilton? _

"I messed up, okay?” Hamilton drags a palm down his face, stretching the skin of his cheeks comically. “Remember last month when Lafayette was out for a whole week? I had to go to the RSEP International Economics conference in Prague in his stead. Only Laf and I knew the research data to come back with the info we needed and there was no way he was getting on a plane while puking his guts out.” Thomas stares, dumbstruck, as Hamilton starts pacing the room. By god, he really does look awful. His shirt wasn't even buttoned correctly. "I filed a request to immigration for my leave, but it turns out they never received it, let alone approved it, and  _ now they want me deported." _

"I'm sorry," Thomas can’t help but let out a hysterical laugh, "What? I still don't understand what exactly this has to do with-"

Hamilton groans, exasperated  _ -well that makes two of us, _ Thomas thinks- and fills himself a second glass before he starts walking in circles again, only downing half of it this time. A small mercy. 

"I've been living and working here on a green card, and one of the conditions of this visa is that I cannot pass the border without a formal request, which requires a signed approval,” Hamilton says, animatedly moving his hands about, the bronze liquid in his glass slushing dangerously close to the edge. “One mixup, one three-day trip, and they want to send me back to a country I haven't been to in over 20 years, and it could take almost two years before I am allowed back here. And that’s the best-case scenario, because there is no guarantee I would be allowed back at all." 

Hamilton stops in his pacing and looks down at his glass, moving it between the tips of his lean fingers. His shoulders slouch in defeat as he raises his head to implore at Thomas, a storm of emotions in his dark eyes. "With the way this new administration is treating non-Americans I barely have any hope of winning this case on my own. Same-sex marriage is thankfully still legal, our Cheeto of a president hasn't thrown that out the window at least, and so it's the only choice I've got. With how tight he is making immigration, I don’t know if I'll be able to fight my way back. So I am begging you,” he draws in a breath and lets it all out on his last word, “ _ Please. _ "

Wow. To witness the ever prideful Hamilton, the man who wouldn't even rein back his words for the best of his interests, downright begging. Thomas should be thrilled. He should be.

There is a moment of silence. "I thought you were from Saint Croix?" Thomas hesitantly asks, tapping his forefinger against the lead glass held carefully between his hands.

He can't help but think back on all the times he jokingly referred to Hamilton as  _ ‘the Immigrant _ ’, just to see him foam.  _ He was kidding _ . After all, the island is still a part of the US. He thought Hamilton knew he was just trying to piss him off. Although, would Thomas have acted differently had he known? Probably not.

Hamilton looks less than impressed by the question. "I thought you knew, what with all the not-so-subtle jabs at my being an Immigrant."

"Yeah, well, I don't actually care for your life story, Hamilton," Thomas shoots back, agitation rising in him. It’s practically become a Pavlovian response to the brunet at this point.

The Virginian mulls it all over in his head. The picture Hamilton paints truly doesn't spell anything good for the shorter man, but to lie to government officials about a marriage? He doesn't need to be a lawyer to know the consequences would be horrendous for them both if they are found out. He has so many questions he doesn’t even know where to start.

No, that’s a lie. The first thing Thomas is dying to ask is  _ why me _ , but that almost sounds like he isn't opposed to the idea, and we can't have that.

He settles on a less needy-sounding approach. "What's in it for me? After all, I'll be sticking my neck on the line here, on top of my reputation. Because let's face it, you?” Thomas lets out a small huff of amusement, “Not a catch."

"I'll talk to the director of the NSNC to give you my slot." The  _ actually an immigrant Jesus _ answers immediately, electing to let the jab slide. Thomas can’t decide if he should be impressed or offended that Hamilton had apparently already thought ahead to what he could potentially offer. 

If Hamilton is willing to trade his spot at the National Society of Newspaper Columnist, the situation really is dire. He couldn't stop boasting in Thomas’s face the entirety of last month about how he had received the honor of being invited to lecture at that damn convention, something they had both been gunning for. Still, a lecture slot is hardly an evenhanded equivalent to him risking his very skin.

"And, you won't submit your works to any of my Pulitzer nominated categories. Ever. Not under a pseudonym, either." Thomas really is kind of enjoying this too much, he should probably stop now and just tell Hamilton he won't do it, outright. Save the man at least some of his dignity. 

_ Paaah! as if. _

"Done," Hamilton agrees, without even pausing to think this through. 

Huh. Looks like he already knew Thomas would push to see just how much he could squeeze out of him. Thomas wonders just how far Hamilton is willing to go with this. 

It should be laughably pathetic, to see the  _ immigrant _ scramble to a thread to latch onto in the fraying rug that’s getting pulled from under his feet- and  _ at his own hands, _ no less. And yet, it doesn’t bring the same kind of satisfaction he would feel when outsmarting Hamilton, when beating him after a good long fight.

A shame. 

Oh well.

Thomas finishes the rest of his drink, licking away the last drop from the rim of the glass and taking immense joy in Hamilton's appalled scrunch of the nose before standing from the armchair, concluding, "I'll think about it."

"Jefferson- "

"Listen, damsel in distress," Thomas places his glass on top of the console table and turns to lean against it, crossing his arms and fixing his guest with a glare. "I might be a knight in shining armor, but maybe you missed the slightly crucial fact that _ I am not gay _ . You're asking me to  _ MARRY YOU _ . Not even just ‘fake date’ you. If this gets around –and,” Thomas snorts out a cynical huff, "We both know this will get around- my name as an upstanding character in society is in jeopardy. My career and reputation will be on the line. Hell, this is fraud! I could go to federal prison if we're caught!"

The  _ immigrant _ seems to mull this over before mumbling something under his breath.

"I'm sorry, you care to repeat that?"

"We won't get caught," Hamilton says, but it's weak- like he's trying to convince himself as much as Thomas, then drains the rest of his glass.

"Oh really?" Thomas leans back on one hand, placing the other on his cocked hip. God, the audacity of this man. "And you can assure this how? Do tell."

"Washington will back us up." This time, when Hamilton speaks it’s with absolute conviction, the spark of determination back in his eyes. Thomas’s first instinct is to object, and yet… and yet. He would, wouldn't he? Washington would never let Hamilton get thrown out on his ass if he could help it.

The damn kid seems to have the Virginian veteran wrapped around his finger. It had always irked Thomas just how much Hamilton is favored over anyone else at their work, including the senior employees, and neither man appears aware of the obviousness of it. Someone less sharp than him might have disregarded the evidence, might brush it off as Hamilton getting more attention for being problematic... But he ain’t blind. He can clearly tell George Washington has a soft spot for the brunet. It shows in the tenderness underlining the older man's voice when he addresses Hamilton, in the warm claps on the shoulder, the way his fingers tighten in an affectionate squeeze. In the fact Washington will almost always side with Hamilton in the shared meetings he crashes in the hope to intermediate.

And Thomas knows he is far from the only one to take notice. 

He sees the microexpressions Burr tries his best to hide, sees the way Angelica Schuyler, their editor-in-chief, practically melts when she stands to the side to observe their boss and his favourite  _ brat _ . There were rumors circulating the office at some point of Hamilton being exactly that; the veteran's illegitimate son, and that that was the origin of the blatant favoritism. But Thomas knows that was utter BS. Hamilton is infuriating, true, but he is also astonishingly talented. He holds a passion for writing Thomas has yet to see in another before, and a burning need to excel that often leaves him in awe. He is brilliant. Diligent.  _ Resourceful _ . 

Unfortunately, Hamilton also has the mouth of a rabid dog, the fashion sense of a blind duck, and the single-mindedness of a bull chasing a Matador's red flag.

And yet…

"Washington, huh?" Thomas smirks and moves to take Hamilton’s and his glasses to the kitchen. This conversation isn't going to continue much longer, and he might as well just start tidying now. It is getting quite late. "So you asked your own daddy for his permission to marry me, how cute."

"Washington is  _ not my father _ ," Hamilton growls lowly, following him into the kitchen. 

_ Riling him up is honestly too easy _ , Thomas muses with glee. 

"And he doesn't know that’s the plan… not yet. He’s our boss and as such he doesn't have to be privy to our relationship outside of work. You may be a senior writer but we’re not subordinate and superior, if we decided to pursue a relationship it wouldn’t warrant disclosing said relationship to our employer-” Hamilton continues to babble on, but Thomas all but ignores him as he places both glasses in the sink and spritzes a splash of water in each to help ease out the color from the glass. He already knows Hamilton’s M.O by heart at this point, knows this is all empty details the man loves to shove in to show how well his plan is thought out, even when it really isn’t. "-So I doubt he will be asked. But yes, he will back us up, in the unlikely event he is. He won’t leave us hanging."

_ Not for my sake, _ Thomas thinks,  _ but you _ …

Something ugly twists in him, slithering about. Angry. Hissing.

He slaps a smile on his face.

"I'll think about it and get back to you."

_ "Jefferson - " _

"Sweetheart," Thomas ignores Hamilton’s enraged squawk at the nickname, now pushing at the man’s back, ushering him towards the door despite his displeased protests. "I am not throwing my life and career in front of a damn train in a spur of the moment – that’s more your style- so sit tight, and I'll let you know."

Hamilton looks torn between making more attempts to protest, and downright contemplating whether to turn on the waterworks for added sympathy. Pathetic.

At last, Hamilton resigns himself to sucking on his teeth and allows Thomas to push him out the door. He pauses just long enough to stare with those puppy browns at him once more and softly requests, "Just... make it quick."

"Goodnight, Hamilton." Thomas cheerfully waves him off and closes the door with finality. He feels a small smile creeping up, stretching the corners of his lips.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos' and comments give me life and are always received with everlasting gratefulness. :P
> 
> I've been told my writing style is kind of like a movie (guilty as charged) so I thought it would be cute, since I live on music, to have a soundtrack too. So I've got this small playlist, I'll aim to fit a song for each chapter, but we'll see haha.
> 
> So the first song on the playlist is [Hozier - Arsonist's Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eJbxI-jZbA).
> 
> I figured it'll be fun to post the song for the next chapter at the end a/n, as a sort of tease for the next chapter. 
> 
> Next on the track, [to be found here. ](https://youtu.be/F30G87zlRPw)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eiiii another chapter.  
> I'll try to post the first few in rapid succession since they be short. They'll get slightly thicker in the middle. Like all of us in quarantine :D
> 
> Only light warning for this chapter; Mentions of discrimination against LGBT+ people in society.
> 
> Once again, Thanks to @CallmeDJ for her beta work.

_Fuck. Shit. Crap. Just- fuck fuck fuck fuck…_

Alexander kicks at the unmoving ground on his way back home, dislodging a few pieces of rubble from the cracking pavement. What was he thinking?! To ask Jefferson for help. _Jefferson._ Of all people. Clearly, he has lost it for the last time tonight.

 _"Figure it out, Alexander. I can't lose you, son."_

Washington's words echo in his head. It feels as though this sentence has been playing on a loop in his brain ever since he left the office this afternoon. He assured the man he had nothing to worry about. A ‘mere hitch in filling some paperwork, nothing more’, he called it. Good god, he messed up for real this time. If he gets deported this is the end of his career, for sure, and it’s not even the worst of it. He’s been openly gay for so long now, he can’t envision how he would shove himself back into the proverbial closet. He won't be able to lead the same open and carefree lifestyle as he had here in a country like the Dominican Republic. If he did not manage to make it back to the States, he won’t be able to get married, won’t even be able to establish a shared household with another man without being discriminated against. Always having to keep his eyes from straying and his expression masculine.

He has no fear anyone would recognize him enough that he would be randomly targeted on the street, but any job he would apply to will undoubtedly look him up and would find his… less than subtle, and highly opinionated pieces easily. He had always been so proud that as a columnist he is able to express his convictions to the fullest. If he doesn’t pull this off, his biggest joy will become something to dread again. He will be back to hiding, back into his shell, could never write anything to draw attention to himself. Forget about being out or proud. He almost wants to laugh at how his life is just an endless loop of masking. An endless game of hide-and-seek with the authorities. 

He curses at his own stupidity. Everything he had worked hard and fought for, every lie he has ever told in his youth, every experience he withheld from, every breath he held when a cop stood a bit too close for fear they would turn and ask him for an I.D., everything his mother had sacrificed, it all could be for naught. Because of one missing form. 

Being married to Jefferson though… the solution has merit, of course, he came up with it, but it is far from ideal. 

John would have been his first choice, but he knows that even if John wasn’t already in a happy and healthy relationship for once, marrying John only to divorce him would break them once and for all. They dated for a while back in college. It was the best of times but also the worst of times. As friends, they bring out the best of one another, but as lovers, they turned too raw to make it work. So much so it had torn their friendship apart to an almost unsalvageable level. They had thankfully managed to recover, but barely. John now lives with his current boyfriend, still in New York, in the old apartment they used to share. They meet up once in a while, usually when John’s boyfriend, Charlie, has business from FDIC at their main hub in D.C, but it isn’t the same. 

John comes from old money, had never had to work for anything in his life. And it shows. He’s kind, but in his kindness there is plenty of naivety and cluelessness. He would say things, do things, that made Alex feel like his place in John’s heart toed a fine line with a charity case rather than stem from casual care. Adding that to the monumental amount of insecurities they share between them, they couldn’t be what the other needed in a partner. 

They were cut out of the same cloth, him and John, men who wear their hearts on their sleeves and their emotions on their faces. They are both full of pride, both of them rash, both unapologetically bold, and they both forget to choose their words before voicing whatever thoughts first come to mind. They are honest about their truths to an appalling degree and find it immeasurably difficult to hold back, even when the situation calls for it.

To be honest, that is what drew his mind to think of Jefferson in the first place. The man is _sly._ He has a way of twisting conversations in his favor without giving his end goal away until the very last moment. 

Of course, Alexander tried to shoot down the idea the second it manifested in his head. But no one else proved a viable option. His second most trusted friend and now colleague, Lafayette, isn’t American either, and is engaged to a lovely lady named Adrienne. They met at uni, she had also been an exchange student from France, a year below them. Hercules, the fourth addition to their original group of friends, is on an apprenticeship in Florence, Italy, learning from the best of the best in the fashion industry. Hell, even Washington himself had crossed his mind. Maybe, if he wasn't untouchable… _No._ Absolutely not, no. Alexander whacked his forehead for daring to think that for even a split second. He wrecked his brain in trying to think of anyone else he knew he could potentially ask such a favor of. 

Burr would have been a plausible choice. The man is even more tightlipped than Jefferson. But that’s also the problem. Burr is so tightlipped that even though Alexander has been working alongside him since his first day at the post, and would consider them good friends, he barely knows anything about him. Burr often keeps his thoughts to himself, only ever speaking up in warning when he suspected Alex was about to do something genuinely stupid that could harm his career. _Could’ve really used your insight before I ended up here, dammit._ But… something in his heart just doesn't feel safe placing his life in Burr's hands, whispering that there is always a potential for the man to turn on him to save his own skin. 

The Jefferson idea stuck with him throughout the day. He knows enough about the Virginian to make a relationship between them believable. Between all their bickering, the not so hidden jabs at each other in their written articles, and the literal screaming matches they find themselves in more often than is probably professional, he has a semblance of an idea of what the man likes and dislikes. He won’t ever admit it for as long as he lives, but Jefferson _intrigues_ him. 

There's this crackling energy between them, repelling and yet threatening to suck him in with its intensity. Like two suns in each other’s orbit, a dance of push and pull. He often blames most of his uncontrollable temper when it comes to the tall man on exactly that. Alex would time and again find himself engaged in an argument or another with Jefferson, seemingly unable to find any subject they wholeheartedly agree on. The man’s only redeeming quality was that even though he mostly leans to the conservative side, he isn’t a homophobe. A quality Alexander is very thankful for right now. That being said, he had insulted Alex before using his sexuality, but the insults had been directed at Alex himself more than being about his tendencies. So Alex is willing to overlook in the interest of making this work. 

The truly difficult part would have - and proved - to be convincing Jefferson to play along in the first place. He only wishes he had more to offer the man, to secure the other’s help and not be left hanging in the unknown like he is at the moment. 

Jefferson is a sleazy, self-righteous, narrow-minded _asshole_ , but the Virginian has pride and honor. He wouldn't go back on his word once it was given.

Alexander sighs for the umpteenth time that evening as he finally reaches his apartment door, his rattling keys sudden and loud in the silence of the hall. He lets himself in, closing the door and slumping against it, dropping the keychain into it’s awaiting bowl. He lets his head fall back to softly thud against the door, slowly breathing in the familiar scent of his home, and recounts all the facts he knows in his head.

His green card renewal has just been canceled. Reapplying would take at least a year, and that’s without the processing time. He will not be able to work for an American company during his exile or processing time. Even trying for a bridging visa with the support of a sponsor would meet resistance and had a good chance of being pushed back until he will ultimately have to leave. No, if he wants out of this he needs to act quickly and swiftly. He’d already been approved for his asylum request before. He could hopefully rely on whatever judge he will face to take said fact into consideration in his favor, and combining it with a current relationship will further diminish the chances of him being forcibly removed from his home. Marriage though, marriage would seal the deal. 

He would have been granted entrance to the country with marriage if he was from abroad anyway, so adding it to all the aforementioned facts would remove any threat he will face of being sent away for processing times. Since he is already in the country, they couldn't deny him staying with his spouse. It’s the only way to assure his survival. 

Alexander just wishes he didn’t have to sell his soul to a magenta clad devil in the process.

He pushes off of the door and slowly drags his feet into his bedroom, loosening his already askew tie and digging out his phone in the process. No new Messages, thankfully. He can’t muster up the energy to deal with anyone right now. He quickly divests himself from his clothes, makes an effort to turn his socks right side out after pulling them off, and unceremoniously drops everything into the hamper to deal with come laundry day. 

His reflection greets him as he walks into his adjoined bathroom, looking worse for wear and drained. He supposes he has looked worse before. And then of course he remembers just where he had been tonight and shudders at his own brashness, of daring to ask someone to _marry him_ while looking like _this_. No wonder Jefferson had been giving him those ridiculing sneers during the entirety of their conversation. 

Conversation? More like a negotiation. A downright haggle. 

Alexander pulls off his hair tie, tossing it onto the sink counter. He climbs into his shower stall and turns on the water stream to a moderate temperature, sticking his head right under to immerse his hair, allowing it to curtain his face as he stares at the streaks of water cascading down to his feet. 

Today had been nothing short of a disaster. He couldn’t for the life of him have foreseen this nightmare unfolding when Washington summoned him to his office this morning, questioning him about the letter the man received from Immigration in regards to Alexander's newly disputable status. In hindsight, this is his only saving grace of the whole thing. Because he did not receive the note himself, as long as he works fast, he will have deniability. The worry had been crystal clear on Washington’s usually stoic face. It took quite the effort to convince his boss that he did not need to step in and intervene, but the fewer people he got involved the easier it will be to convince whatever government official he and Jefferson ended up facing that this had all been one unfortunate coincidence that he was getting married right after his visa was terminated. Of course, he had no idea this would be his plan at the time, but he definitely knew he did not want Washington to get involved.

The relationship between Washington and him… if he could be so bold as to call it a relationship. His…acquaintance with him, their dynamic, was tension-filled from the very start. Always on a low simmer. Always tiptoeing. He can’t pinpoint what set off his own anxiousness around the man, but it's like he can’t talk to him without goosebumps making his hair stand on end. Perhaps it’s that George Washington portrays the embodiment of everything he longed to become; strong, resilient, calm, respected. Alexander’s enthralled by his unwavering posture. Sure, his Titan-like body contributes to it, but it wasn’t just that. Charisma rolls off of him in waves. The man commanded the attention of any room he stepped into, immediately acknowledged as a force to be reckoned with. Alexander will forever be indebted to the man for sponsoring his studies, paying almost the entire tuition fee for a kid he didn't personally know at the time. He knows it’s silly, but he longs to impress him with his work, to prove he is worthy of Washington's generous contribution to his personal and professional growth. He wants to make him proud. 

He grabs his 3 in 1 mint scented shampoo and body wash and starts scrubbing it into his scalp and shoulders. If Jefferson refused his request, we still might have some time to think of another solution, but each day is precious and he would need to act fast. Alexander makes quick work of cleaning the rest of his body, taking care to wash out all the insistent bits of soap from his hair before turning off the shower faucet. He rubs his hair with his towel to soak up the worst of the moisture before wrapping it around his slim hips and leaving the bathroom to sit on his bed. 

Alexander reaches over and grabs his phone, turning it over in his palm. Should he tell someone? His friends would want to know he is… getting married isn’t quite what he is doing. He is in trouble. And yes, they will yell at him later for hiding something of this magnitude from them. 

He thumbs open his phone and scrolls down his contacts list until he lands on John's contact card, only to shake his head and toss his phone onto his bedside table, dropping backward to lay atop his made bed, wet hair be damned. He will have to confess eventually. But all of his friends (and himself too, he’s not too proud to admit) have a tendency to act before fully considering the consequences, and the situation was too delicate to allow for any mess-ups. For the same reason he didn’t want Washington to contact anyone, he could not let his friends in on this either. Right now the less drama he needed to worry about, the fewer people he needed to account for, the better. 

Alexander fetches out a pair of boxers to sleep in, quickly slips them on, and gets under the covers. Pulling the warm duvet all the way over his ears, he cocooning himself in, only his face sticking out. There was nothing else he could do for now. Hopefully sleep will consume him soon. He has a long day of legwork and information gathering tomorrow, and he doesn’t know how much more of this fretful overthinking he could take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the next chapter, [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzXuQbcp8Yc)
> 
> Btw, the line about Washington being untouchable is just my personal nod to the fic that got me into Jamilton in the first place, @nightshiftblues's [What We Can't Have.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890156/chapters/31961583) It's a work of art.
> 
> So, funny story. I live under a rock, so I only got into Hamilton a few months ago, and I've heard mentions of ITH, but refused to listen to the soundtrack without knowing the full story. About halfway through writing this fic, after I already had the entire plot laid down, with Hammie being from the Dominican and all that, I finally broke down and listened to it and my first thought was….
> 
> Omg. I'm writing a Hamilton x In the Heights fusion. _And I didn't even knowwwww._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably my favorite chapter to write. Oh man.
> 
> No warnings for this one. "It's called A Powermove." -Lois Lane.
> 
> Honestly, I could not stop listening to Way Down We Go ever since I decided it's going to represent this chapter. I'd listen to it and just replay the whole thing in my head like _yheasssssssssss_  
>  Thanks again to @CallMeDJ for proofing!

George Washington's office is a warm and soothing blend of new and old. From the large glass and steel door entering his office all the way to the back is a bookshelves-styled feature wall, containing a wide collection of antiques. Old models of pistols, a small microscope, a pendulum, to name a few amidst the gifts he had accumulated over the years, along with several encased medals, framed awards and various certificates. The wall’s pattern continues behind his executive, metal frame desk and ergonomic leather chair. The north-facing wall running parallel to the first had been entirely replaced with spotless floor to ceiling windows, allowing for a marvelous panoramic view of the city whether it be morning time or sundown. He especially finds it calming at night, on the rare occasions he spends a long evening at work. When darkness falls on the horizon but the city maintains its hazy glow, lights still shining from many of the windows and streets well into the early hours of the morning. The floor, made of sleek ebony wood with an anti-glare finish, completes the room's harmonious motif of metal, glass, and wood. 

Today, walking the length of his office doesn’t offer him the same kind of tranquility the action should have been accompanied by. 

George prides himself on being an intelligent man. But even more than mere intelligence, it’s his perceptiveness and intuition that gives him that extra edge over others. His gut instincts were what had kept him alive during his service in the army, and his keen eye was what snagged him his rapid success in the publishing industry. Today, his gut is telling him, will not end well. Ever since he had seen the name attached to the email he got an hour ago - sent to him on his private account, no less – a bad feeling was stirring in his chest. The contents when he read them only made him warier. Something wasn't right, and he would rather face this head-on than wait for it to catch him with his guard down. 

He summoned him the moment he finished reading it. Even if the man was drowning in his assignments, what was taking so long?

"Mr. Washington, you asked to see me?"

At last. 

Washington stops in his pacing and turns to face his employee, schooling his face into something less… well, just less.

"Mr. Jefferson. Do come in. I had a query in regards to the email I received from you earlier. I was hoping you could enlighten me as to its nature. If you would like to have a seat," Washington points in a vague gesture to the armchair in front of his desk as he starts his way to sit behind it. He quickly recalibrates when he hears the lock on his office door click, standing next to his desk instead. 

"If it is quite alright with you, sir, I'd rather stay standing. I have much to get back to and I'm sure our chat won't be a lengthy one."

What… is going on here?

Washington raises an eyebrow and peculiarly watches as Jefferson walks to the center of the room while keeping a respectful distance from him, ever nonchalant, his hands clasped at the small of his back and looking out the window almost as if he were merely strolling through a museum. Jefferson had always exuded an air of unparalleled confidence about him, except Washington has yet to witness it with such restlessness in between them.

Jefferson has been working for him for many years now. George first met him when he was still a young man, his father dragging him along on his political campaign, a campaign Peter Jefferson had hoped George would help endorse. Thomas Jefferson had shown signs of his brightness even back then. Quick-witted and noble, well-spoken in the short conversation they had. He pondered from time to time if Jefferson remembers that meeting, as neither of them had ever brought it up.

He had been quick to hire him when he saw the young man's resume in the pile forwarded to his desk, and he has yet to regret said decision. Thomas is a hard worker. Unconventional, sometimes, but efficient. It had only been when Alexander was introduced into the staff that George noticed a change in Jefferson's demeanor. Overnight those two were at each other's throats like rabid foxhounds and he still hadn’t managed to find a system to help them find a compromise. Jefferson was never a particularly warm individual, but there is a chill to the stares he directs at Alexander that George could not find a basis for. The animosity between Jefferson and Alexander had only grown the more the two would meet. Which had been the reason for most of his alarm this morning. An alarm he now sees he was correct to have. Whatever this was, Jefferson has planned it to a set timeline and doesn’t wish for them to be interrupted and for the mood to be overset, as was evident by him cheekily locking the door without approval. 

Is Jefferson trying to intimidate him? What on earth for? The man reeks of cocksure determination. The entire thing spelling trouble in big bold letters. 

Not one to be outdone, George draws himself to his full height and copies Jefferson’s stance. "Of course, Mr. Jefferson. Then I trust you will not mind if I cut straight to the chase. You expressed a request for a week of leave, starting Monday. As it is Friday, and nearing the end of the workday as it is, it appears you wish to leave effective immediately-"

"I have more than enough off days saved up to cover the week and today's work should you see it fit, sir," Jefferson interjects.

"That is hardly the problem, Thomas.” His palms close into fists behind his back, reigning in the itch to wipe the complacent smile off of Jefferson's face. “What does concern me, however, is you seemed to have made the request not only for yourself, but also on behalf of Hamilton. Explain."

Jefferson turns from the window and fixes Washington with a meaningful glance, pretending to size him up, a smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth. George wished he knew what was happening in his brain. 

Jefferson twirls _-twirls-_ towards the bookcase. If there is anything at all George learned from years in the perigee of politicians and traders, the more suspense you could build, the more you would get others to bend to your will. People have the unfortunate tendency to give you what you wanted, practically lay it at your feet, if only to finally get you to go away. Jefferson knows this well, he had seen the man grow from a fumbling reporter to a true crowd-charmer, and evidently Jefferson is going to milk this for all he was worth. For a split second, George entertains the idea of simply firing him and to be done with this charade. 

"I'm surprised he hasn't told you yet." Jefferson makes his way to take a closer look at the ornaments adorning the shelves as he speaks. "Well you see, it is all so very rushed, hence why I wanted to really make the most of it and take my fiancé on a short vacation before our wedding. We really do deserve a break don’t you think?" 

…What?

"There's been much stress lately, we really don't have the best of timing, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose. The wedding will be small of course, really just a couple of witnesses, we only really need to drop off the paperwork, and be on our merry way." 

Jefferson throws him a brash glance over his shoulder, but George is still stuck trying to combine the vague clues Jefferson is trying to throw him, turning the man's words over in his head. He doesn’t understand this change in subject. He elects to keep his silence, perhaps Jefferson will be compelled to show his hand.

Jefferson straightens, eyeing the chessboard resting on the shelf level right before him. A beautiful piece of art that had belonged to Lawrence. The entire plate and all accompanied pieces were carved out of marble. The traditional black color was replaced with a dark, tiger-eye like brown stone while the white had specs of dark gray woven into it. The set goes well with the rest of the theme in George's office and holds a special place in his heart. The pieces were strewn on the board as if an unfinished game had just taken place. Jefferson picks up the black queen, examining the piece and rolling it around in between the tips of his fingers.

"You know, I do aspire to become an editor at some point. I think the position would really suit me, don’t you?" Jefferson gently sets the queen down in the available spot diagonally threatening the white king. "Hmm. I suppose I never really have much say as to when it will happen, but I can… hope, you will think of me ready enough. Sometime soon."

He’s extorting him. Jefferson’s extorting him.

But what---

Oh. No. 

_Alexander my dear boy what have you done?_

The first thing George realises with a start is that Jefferson knows of Hamilton’s Gordian knot of legal trouble. George can only assume he found out straight from Alexander. Unless his office is bugged, which he will be looking into just to be safe the moment this conversation is over. The second is that Jefferson had taken a gamble by assuming Washington’s already aware of it as well. He tiptoed around the question, knowing that if he played his cards right he will have George just where he wanted him, without needing to spell it out. Jefferson had bet on the whole ranch, a gamble that has paid off. The third is that this wasn't about an editor's position. Jefferson is too smart for his own good, he wouldn't risk blackmailing his own boss, and someone with George Washington's reach, if it was. He wanted him on a leash. 

And what's more, George quickly catches on, the email, the phrasing…

_Alexander doesn't know._

Not that they are meeting, nor what Jefferson is asking George to trade away on his boy's behalf. He miscalculated. He hadn’t miscalculated so terribly since that day he had almost been killed in action. Had grown too comfortable in his position. He should have gone to Alexander instead of summoning Jefferson to his office to explain himself. He fell right into this orchestrated show. Had he asked his boy… No. Because as long as Alexander didn't know, George could still protect him. 

Because Jefferson _does_ know. 

Jefferson knows not just that Alexander stands on rocky ground, but also the severity of it. He’s done the same research George has. He isn't threatening George to pull out of his agreement with Alexander, he's threatening George to go to immigration and rat on Alexander for trying to cheat the system. He knows if he does Alex would be deported, indefinitely, on the spot. That his boy will have a black mark on his passport and will never be allowed entry into the States ever again. Otherwise, he would not be as cocky as he is right now. He knows George can't go to Alexander and tell him Jefferson's got him in his pocket without leaving Jefferson with dangerously vital information and _nothing left to lose._ Alex can't know. 

George is left with only one course of action. 

He _will_ protect him. 

"I can see what you mean, Jefferson. I will take it under careful consideration."

Jefferson turns to him once more, giving him a serious once over, before slowly letting another sinister smile spread on his face. Ever the actor, this one. Truly enough theatrics to give the best of Broadway a run for their money. Washington would be amazed if he wasn't still trying to swallow the foul taste in his mouth. 

"I do believe that you will,” Jefferson says, his tone airy, laughably contrasting with the gravity of the stunt he has just pulled off. “Now, if you do forgive me, _sir_ , I ought to get back to work. After all, I have much to finish today."

He bitterly watches Jefferson as the man leaves his office, shutting the door behind himself, seemingly taking all the sound out with him and leaving George’s ears ringing in the encasing silence. 

George approaches the decorative wall, taking deliberately slow steps. He stops before it, examining the pieces of the chessboard sullenly. His gaze flicks to the shelf above, where his medal of bravery rests in its frame, mocking him. A phantom ache settles at his left shoulder. 

George Washington's office has never failed to calm him down. It’s familiar. Homely. It represents all that he has accomplished, all the hard won wisdom he has earned. He knows every nook and cranny like the back of his hand. 

But it has made him lethargic, and now it’s going to cost him. All because he refused to admit to the elephant in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next song on the soundtrack, [Here.](https://youtu.be/j9zj3FYdskk)
> 
> Honestly, it's going to be pretty obvious where this one goes. You'll see XD
> 
> I've made a Tumblr account! @redredwhite ! Come interact with me and stuff, I'm very bored and lonely T-T  
> Will mostly use it for, like, memes I make of this fic, thoughts, other snippets, and headcanons. You know the works.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already made my beta @CallMeDJ laugh, hope to make you guys too :P

"And what can I get you, sweetie?" The cashier smiles at him from behind the counter, her thick North Carolinian accent is like music to his ears after the hours spent listening to the pretentious old coots and their stale commentating at this proposed budget reading. God, he is exhausted.

"Just a coffee to go. Black, two sugars, please."

"Sure thing, Pumpkin! Coming right up."

Alex thanks her and quietly stands to the side to wait for his order. The press conference he had been in was less of a conference, and more of an invitation to sit back and take notes on a proposed bill's read-through meeting. From the little of what he knows about their currently appointed Governor, there were a few anecdotes that make him believe the enacted budget will be vetoed in its entirety and sent back to the legislature for amendments. 

It’s days like this when Alexander loves his job and hates it all at the same time. Sure, it's a nice ego boost to be amongst the few reporters who are eligible to listen in on these important meetings, especially when his opinionated nature is well known around the news network. He cultivated quite the reputation in his few years as a writer, if he does say so himself. But there is something unfathomably exhausting about having to constantly trawl for the fine print and endless hidden loopholes, forever searching to weed out hidden agendas and piece together just who is trying to pull at what string. He's a writer, not a detective.

In his head he already started editing and phrasing his notes into something closer to resembling an article structure. He grabs his coffee, mumbling another quiet ‘thanks’ to the barista. Alexander quickly leaves the cafeteria and starts on his trek back to "HQ" to work on his segment. He didn’t get as much sleep as he had hoped to the night before, his impending doom haunting him until the small hours of the morning.

He’s just about to reach the crosswalk when a red vehicle catches his interest from the corner of his eye. A red convertible Mustang, swerving from the far left lane to the right, causing more than one driver to honk angrily as they wave their hands in a series of swift cutting motions that would’ve made most orchestra conductors jealous. He thinks it’s going to pass him but it stops right next to him, the driver honking twice.

What kind of pretentious fuck-

Oh. It’s Jefferson.

Because _of course_ Thomas Jefferson drives an eye-poking red, topless sports car. The man's wild curls glisten in the sun, puffier than usual due to the gushes of wind they had been subjected to as he drove with the top down, his eyes hidden by a pair of _revolting_ puke-orange hexagon-shaped sunglasses. He’s not wearing his jacket, probably discarded it somewhere in the back seat. The cuffs of his pale pink dress shirt were rolled up to rest below his elbows, the knot on his signature magenta tie loosened up. A wolf-like grin grows on his face when he sees he managed to get Alexander's attention.

"Get in, loser. we're going shopping!"

How. How is this man for real. And he asked this overgrown man-child for help. Lord have mercy on him.

"What on earth are you doing here, Jefferson?" Alex is almost scared to ask, but his curiosity got the better of him.

"Just get in already, will you? I'm holding up the lane!"

Alex looks down at his coffee with disappointment, hardly a dent made in the dose. Best case scenario, he gets a lift to the office. Worst case scenario, they crash into a bridge and he is finally put out of his misery. Win-win at this point, if you ask him. Reluctantly, Alexander downs what he can of his beverage, burning his tongue in the process. He tosses the rest in the sidewalk bin and gets in the car, making sure to stow his briefcase properly beneath his legs and secure his hair tighter so it won't hit him in the face. He’s never seen Jefferson drive before and prays this last moment was not a prelude to the majority of it. 

He scrambles to grab onto the side of the car as Jefferson swivels back into traffic. _So you have chosen death_ , his brain laughs at him. Looks like it.

"Do make yourself useful, Hammie, and get out the documents from the glove compartment. And don’t you dare let them fly out right after I went to all the trouble of printing them out nice and neat for you!" Jefferson says, thankfully keeping his attention on the road. 

"Don't call me that, only my friends call me that,” Alex growls.

Jefferson snorts, sounding rather amused by this. "Oh? So what should I call you then? Sweetheart? Babydoll? Boo? How southern. Ooh! _moon of my life, my sun and stars~_ "

"Did you get hit in the head?" Did Alex wake up in an alternate universe? What the hell is happening?

"Just get out the damn papers you fool."

He really wants to be stubborn about this, but, for once, Alex decides he will have to play along. He needs Jefferson on his side, and though he just knows whatever has the Virginian in such a giddy mood is most likely going to end up with him as the punch-line, he’ll have to suck it up if he wants to be in Jefferson's good graces. Opening the glove compartment, he finds two string and washer manila folders. One a traditional paper beige, one a plastic blue, its contents slightly heavier. 

"The brown one,” Jefferson supplies.

Alex places the blue folder back into the glove compartment and shuts it, eyeing the remaining folder. He then eyes Jefferson, for good measure, but concludes the man won't let anything messy be spilled in his spotless car, so it’s probably not booby-trapped. Opening the folder, he pulls up only the tops of the documents within to indeed not risk them flying out and onto the road. His eyes widen as he reads the title.

"What is this?"

"I know for a fact you can read, Hamilton."

Alex pulls the forms out fully and quickly scans through them, and sure enough, Jefferson had signed at all of what would be his designated parts.

"You- you’re gonna-" For once, words escape him. 

"Yes, I will marry you. It’s the happiest day of your life, I’m sure. Now, some rules," Jefferson takes over talking. Alexander is still frozen, staring at the elegant signature at the bottom of the last page, right above where his signature needed to go to finalize the legal portion of their engagement. "All expenses are going to be on you, that includes any processing fees and marriage certificate details, getting the rings, I want none of that kerfuffle, you dig? In whatever story we tell 'em; I proposed, because I wear the pants in this household-”

Alex bristles. "Do you have to be such a provincial ass-?" 

"-And no, we are not telling anyone we work with about it. This is strictly business. Capiche?" Jefferson concludes, making it very clear Alex has no room to object if he wants this deal to happen.

Alexander’s rather speechless. Just like that? He figured it would take far longer to convince Jefferson to help him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Jefferson would come to him, already eager to move on to the next stage this quickly. He could simply want to be done with him already and get this out of his way, but this is _Jefferson_. There's always another shoe with him. Looking around Alex notices they were not, in fact, on their way to work.

"Where are we going? HQ is the other way."

"Tsk. Do I have to spell everything out for you today?” Jefferson’s head moves with his eye roll. “We're going to the immigration office. We gotta drop off those papers, after her royal princess signs them, of course. The sooner we get this whole mess over with, the quicker we can get a divorce and I'll be done with you. So we are going there now, and then we're off to Monticello."

"I'm sorry what?!"

 _Monticello_????? Alex should be careful, at this rate a fly is going to end up in his mouth.

"Lord give me patience," Jefferson grumbles and rubs a hand over his forehead.

"You're kidnapping me to your house? Why??"

"Kidnapping is exactly what this feels like. The similarities between you and a screaming infant are astounding."

"You talking from experience?"¬ Alex shoots back. Good, this is more in line with their usual squabbles. Funny how arguing with Jefferson feels far more at home than him being _nice_ to him.

Jefferson falls quiet, giving Alex the impression he is holding back his own venom for the sake of progressing their conversation. Which is… honestly quite alarming. Jefferson never missed an opportunity to snap back at him. 

They had just arrived at a large intersection and are waiting for the light to turn green when Jefferson lifts one of his hands from the steering wheel to press a button on the side console, triggering the roof mechanism to pull it back up over their heads and close them off from the rest of the world and into their own bubble. He props the sunglasses up to rest atop his head, pushing back his mane-like hair. Only when all the windows are properly shut does Jefferson continue.

"I did some digging.” His voice takes on a grave, conspiratorial tone Alex hadn't heard the man use before. "Like I said yesterday, I have no plans to dive headfirst into the frying pan. If we want to pull this off we have to prepare in the case they decide the ‘happy coincidence’ of our marriage taking place right at the time your visa expires was a bit too perfectly lucky, and want to conduct interviews. I have zero intentions of ending up in jail, thank you very kindly, my dear fiancé, so we are going to take the week to properly memorise everything we would need to otherwise naturally know about our partner.” 

Jefferson spares him a glance, his expression somewhere between aversion and aggravation, before flicking his pinched gaze back to the road. “It’s going to look hella suspicious if we keep meeting every day for a week but sleep in separate houses, and someone’s neighbor is bound to notice eventually. As lovely as I am sure your one-bedroom apartment is, I am not going to sleep in the same bed as you, and like hell am I sleeping on your couch, assuming you even have one. So it’s either my place, or my estate. If we want to keep this quiet, the more secluded the venue the better. So, Monticello, it is."

That… that makes sense. Alex wonders briefly how Jefferson managed to look so thoroughly into the subject in the little time since he had first voiced his request. He didn't take Jefferson for the methodical type. He had always assumed the man wielded the same swift decisiveness as he does. 

This was turning into a day full of many surprises. But would he be able to survive living under the same roof as his arch-nemesis for a full week? Alexander mulls this over. If push comes to shove, Jefferson’s estate would at least offer them enough space to retreat from the other’s company when they could not stand to stay in the same room anymore. 

Alex comes to the sudden realisation that perhaps he will be looking at living with his nemesis for far longer than a week. If their reliability did come into question, they might be facing a reality where they will need to act as a married couple for future inquisitions too. He hadn't thought of that. Is that a possibility? How far would immigration go to check their story? He feels panic trying to sink its claws into his chest and forces it quickly down. Loath as he is to admit it, Jefferson is committed, and he proves to have looked into this with far more depth than he himself had. If Jefferson is in, as was evident by his signature, then so is Alexander.

All right then. He will follow Jefferson's lead for the time being. "What about work?" Alex asks, slouching into the plush leather seat.

"I've requested time off, and you will do the same. Send Schuyler an email stating you need to cash in some vacation days -which I also know for a fact you have, you crazy workaholic-"

"Pot, kettle," Alexander grumbles under his breath.

Jefferson smirks but says nothing more, pulling his sunglasses off to replace them again on his nose, shading his eyes. Alex wonders how long this ceasefire between them was going to last. 

And then Jefferson, _the absolute dick_ , presses play on the sound system. Alex initially expected the radio, but _noooo_ , he quickly surmises the audio had to have come from Jefferson's phone when Meghan Trainor’s song Dear Future Husband starts playing.

_This. Bitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song that represents the next chapter, [Here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5EN5BtmeGk)
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr! @redredwhite :D
> 
> Honestly, guys, this might end up an entire universe. I keep getting more background Ideas.  
> But I need to find the time to write it all. Yeef.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ai~ I'm back. Sorry for the delay, real life was trying me this week.  
> Your comments give me life, though, and make me so happy every single time I see one.  
> I can't express to you guys enough how much it means to me. Thank you all so much!!!
> 
> As always Thanks to my beta @CallMeDJ, I'd be lost without you.
> 
> I'm looking for a second Beta to help with the thicker chapters, if anyone would be willing to help out that would be ✨~amazing~✨ :D

Their affairs at Immigration pass by in a whirlwind. The line had been long, as was expected, but thankfully they were able to drop off their filled forms without any questions arising, only getting a coo or two from the lady at the front desk when they asked where they needed to queue to drop off their request for a partner visa. Alexander's face had flushed scarlet when she complimented them on how handsome they each were and gushed about what a cute couple they make.

He chews over how different the reactions they received from strangers are, when they see Jefferson and him together, compared to how he imagines their friends and coworkers who know them in their day to day lives might react. After all, these strangers have no idea they hate each other's guts. Looking at Jefferson as he sweet-talked the man that had filed their request though, he had to concede and agree with the front desk lady. They make quite the power couple.

Alex isn’t blind. Thomas Jefferson is a very attractive man, when he’s not spewing out insults. And although Alex will get insecure at times over his own disheveled look, he gets propositioned enough to know he’s considered good looking from an objective point of view. He wonders briefly just how evident it was that he’s the one ‘marrying up’ between them. The thought leaves a sour taste dancing on his tongue.

A bump in the road tears Alexander from his inner spiraling thoughts to look over at the man sitting next to him, in the driver’s seat. _His fiancé_. Officially, now. His mind is reeling, and he’s bouncing his leg anxiously as he tries to wrap his head around it all.

They’re back in Jefferson's car and on their way out to Virginia after making a quick stop at Alexander's apartment, for him to pick up a duffle bag with some clothes for the week. Having Jefferson over and standing in his small living room had been surreal. He quickly grabbed the essentials -clothes, deodorant, his phone and laptop chargers- and shooed the man out before he started taking a piss out of Alex’s messy living style. The man had already scrunched up his nose and took in a breath, planning to do just that, when Alexander yelled ‘Nope!’ and forcibly dragged him out.

They’re really doing this. This is crazy.

“Will you sit still for five damn minutes?” Jefferson snaps at him after he starts fiddling with the window control for the fifth time in the last hour, turning the music he put on to a quiet hum in the background.

“Yes, well, I’m bored,” Alex huffs defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. His phone’s dead after a full day of usage with no charging time, and staring out the window can only alleviate his boredom so much. Putting his messenger bag in the back was a mistake.

“Then pull out the car manual and busy yourself for all I care!” Jefferson claps back unhelpfully.

Alex tries his best to sit still for another full five minutes before his resolve breaks, opening the glove compartment to look for the damn manual. He notices the same blue folder from before and decides that _~~Fuck Jefferson~~_ and opens it to look over its contents. His eyebrow climbs almost up to his hairline and he plucks the documents out to flip through, ignoring Jefferson’s _“nosy little weasel”_ hiss from his left.

“You printed out the questions the INS is going to ask us? Where did you even get this?”

“There could be other questions,” Jefferson says, waving a hand as if batting away a fly. “These are simply the ones I found on a quick Reddit search. Granted, the post was from a couple of years ago, but it's a start.”

This is more than a start. Again he’s struck by how much he seems to be underestimating Jefferson. Everything Jefferson does always looks so effortless. Had he misjudged him from the beginning?

No. No way.

Suddenly anger fills him, bubbling up from deep in his guts. He lays the papers face down flat on his lap, smacking his palm on top. “Yeah well, I won't be needing them. Your favorite food is Kraft’s boxed mac and cheese, you had a pet lamb as a kid, your favorite color is whatever god-awful shade of pink that _tie_ you constantly wear is. You for whatever reason despise cigars with a passion, but you smoke cigarettes when you think Madison can’t catch and scold you. You’re also allergic to the full spectrum of human emotion. What else is there to know about?”

Alex pointedly doesn’t look in Jefferson’s direction as he realises he just gave away how much he actually pays attention to what his rival does on a daily basis (and also that he may or may not have listened in on more than a couple of occasions to the two Virginians in their private conversations). He prays his face and neck aren’t that visibly red though he can feel them burning. He also kind of wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Well I’ll be damned, Hamilton. Did you orchestrate this whole mess just to get in my pants?” Jefferson laughs at him, but there’s an edge to it.

Alexander fumes. “Now you listen here you self-centered-”

“It’s green.”

“W-what?” Alex fumbles but lets Jefferson cut him off.

“My favorite color. It's green. Just because I look damn good with that tie doesn’t mean it's my favorite color. But nice of you to announce yourself an expert on my life, dipshit.” Jefferson is very clearly angry at Alex’s careless rant. Good.

“Yeah well, I’ve got news for you. As the resident gay, you should burn that tie,” Alex fires right back, crossing his arms and turning to the window defiantly.

“I’m two seconds from crashing this car and ending you, Hamilton.”

“Please do.”

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

The rest of their ride is spent in relative silence, only interrupted by the low murmur of the still playing music in the background, neither party willing to break and acknowledge they were being childish. The sun’s starting to set as they pull up the mountain and into Jefferson's driveway. Alex has to admit, he can see why Washington often speaks so fondly of his home. Virginia’s countryside is beautiful, with long mountain ranges and plains of grass filled with all different colored flowers.

Monticello’s estate in itself is both massive, and yet not as big as he made it out to be in his head, all at the same time. He thought he would find it far more intimidating, but go figure.

Jefferson parks a few meters to the side and gets out without another word, hurrying to pull out his bags from the trunk. Alex looks down at the papers still in his lap, feeling rather foolish now. He should apologize, he knows. Jefferson’s been nothing but accommodating towards him and here he was making a downright ass out of himself.

Alexander quickly stuffs the documents back into their folder and climbs out, noticing Jefferson had pulled out his duffle bag along with his own and left it on the ground next to the car, already making his way towards the front door. Alex quickly snatches his bag up from the dirt and swings it onto his shoulder, jogging the short distance to catch up to Jefferson,

“I’m sorry,” Alex says before he loses his nerve and risks letting this awkward air remain between them.

Jefferson is quick to dismiss it with a clipped, “Whatever.”

“I mean it,” Alex emphasizes, grabbing onto Jefferson's arm and halting him. The man sighs but doesn’t turn to look at him. Alex must have hit a nerve somewhere. He feels even more like a dick. “You’ve gone to all this trouble, and here I am being an ungrateful jerk. So yeah. Thank you, for this.” He lets his hand fall back to his side and adds again, for good measure, “And I’m sorry.”

Jefferson spares him a brief glance of acknowledgment but says nothing, then proceeds on his way to the front door. Alex sighs too, nothing much he could say past this point, what with the ball being in Jefferson's court, and follows the man up the stairs and into the house.

The instant he steps inside his jaw drops. He takes it back; Monticello is actually very fucking intimidating. The building feels even bigger on the inside somehow. It also might have suddenly hit him that this is _someone’s house_ , and not just a big library, which was the first impression the building’s style gave off.

Opulence oozes from every part of the decor, the building full of generations-old treasures, all meticulously placed. Just how much money is Jefferson sitting on?

He briefly wonders if he will technically be entitled to some of it in the divorce and has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing like a maniac right then and there at the thought. Yep, definitely marrying up. _Good God._

“You’ll be sleeping on the second floor, so go up and just find yourself a room. I don’t care which one, just don't touch anything that isn't the bed. And try not to get lost. I’ll come find you,” Jefferson yells out from what Alex presumes is the kitchen. Well, he wasn’t really expecting a tour but some direction other than ‘don't get lost’ might have been nice. Whatever. It’s not like he wants to spend any more time with Jefferson after being stuck in a car with him for practically the entire day.

Alexander hefts his bag more securely onto his shoulder and takes a look around, trying to spot the stairs leading to the second floor. He first tries walking straight ahead, but that only leads him to an extravagant living room full of couches and chairs clad with a fabric in the same hideous magenta color as Jefferson's abominable tie. Alex turns back to start fresh. He walks through the nearest door and finds an empty bedroom. Retracing his steps once more he tries for the door on the other side and arrives at a small hallway leading to a blue painted room.

Letting his curiosity get the better of him again, Alexander continues into the square room, which appears to be a library, staring at the many paintings on the far wall. Resting on the mantle of a small fireplace are several framed pictures of a young woman, a couple with Jefferson at her side or wrapping an arm around her, the rest of them just her by herself. His sister, perhaps?

There’s another open door to the side of the fireplace. _Just how many rooms does this place have?_ His head was starting to spin.

Alexander’s about to retrace his steps yet again when the green color of the adjacent room catches his eye, beckoning him forward. Entering the room, he appreciates how everything in the room has been color-coordinated with the green notes. The walls, the fabric of the chair seats and the rug are all different shades of green, but together with the rest of the wooden makeup of the room it works. A quick glance at the desk by the wall tells him he stumbled into Jefferson's office. Scattered across the desk are newspaper cutouts, a few pens, a wooden box with an opal cabochon embedded in its top, and an old fashioned sand hourglass.

Alex picks up the hourglass carefully to examine it. Its metal frame is a gorgeous intricate design, at its bottom and top -mirrored so it would be readable whichever way it was placed- was engraved a quote; _‘How Long is Forever? Sometimes, Just a Second’_. He knew this from somewhere. Where did he read this quote before?

“The hell are you doing here?”

Alex jumps nearly a foot up in the air, thankfully clutching the hourglass to his chest rather than letting it fall to the ground. Jefferson’s standing at a different door than the one he had come through, looking less than impressed with his arms crossed and sternly tapping his foot.

“I- um.” Alex licks his lips and quickly puts down the undoubtedly very precious piece of work back at its place on Jefferson's desk. “I couldn’t find the stairs.”

Jefferson grumbles something Alex couldn’t hear under his breath and turns to the room behind him.

Since he hadn't been ordered not to, Alexander follows and takes a quick look around from the safety of the entrance, surprised, because he didn’t anticipate the next room he would walk into to be the man's bedroom. Who on earth has their office connected to their bedroom? Thomas Jefferson, apparently.

The room is neat if a bit dull compared to the rest of the house. Apart from the furniture, a clock, the bags at the far corner, and a couple of books were the only things indicating the room was in use. At the room's center stands a king-sized four poster bed. Alex takes one look at the shiny sheets and rolls his eyes. Silk. How on-brand. To the bed's right is a tall wooden armoire, and at the other side of the room, a wooden chair with a few clothing articles draped upon it. It sticks out to him how all of these pieces of furniture look new, their design simple, going for function rather than form.

Alex restlessly shuffles his weight from one foot to the other as Jefferson rummages around in his closet. The tall man turns back around a moment later, holding clean bedsheets and a towel in his hands.

“Come on, you lost cause,” Jefferson prompts him to follow back to the same hallway Alex had passed through before, pointing him to open a door Alex missed on his first round passing through. Beyond it is a steep and narrow staircase leading to the second floor.

Jefferson shows him to the nearest room and drops the sheets and towel onto the bed.

“Take a shower, you reek, and then come back downstairs, I’ve made dinner,” Jefferson orders as he moves to open a window and let the room air. “The shower is just through that door, there should be toiletries in there for you to use, or you can use whatever you brought with you, I don’t care.”

Alex drops his bag onto the bed and observes Jefferson wordlessly while the man pulls out a blanket and a pillow from the large chest of drawers across the room, placing them on the chair next to it. He appears calmer than a moment before. Deep in thought, something else on his mind as his body moves through the motions.

Just as Jefferson is about to leave Alex remembers himself and thanks him once more for his hospitality.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Jefferson warns with his hand on the door handle from the outside, ready to close it after he says his piece. “You're getting mac and cheese for dinner.”

Just as Alexander thought, Jefferson shuts the door with a small huff, not waiting for a reply.

It’s stupid, but Alex can’t help but smile at it still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex not finding the stairs is me, taking a virtual tour of Monticello, not managing to find the fucking stairs.  
> I legit had to pull up the floorplans to find them. 
> 
> I kinda renovated the house a little bit? Not that it's noticeable anyway. There are way too many rooms in this estate, smh.
> 
> Hiding little details around that will come back into play later is just so much fun. I'm curious to find out what you guys will pick up! Let me know in the comments if you've got any guesses! 
> 
> No song for the next chapter. Honestly? I have way too many options for this fic, I'm thinking I might just abandon this and post an entire playlist at the end. [Edit: full playlist can be found here if anyone wants it - [:D](https://redredwhite.tumblr.com/post/638431714017001472/ctci-playlist)]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter and so did my wonderful beta, @CallMeDJ ! hope you guys do too :D
> 
> Trigger warning? I guess? Just some good-natured humor about wanting to die from embarrassment or wanting to kill your guest.  
> You guys know how these two are lol
> 
> And I'm introducing a new character to Alexander's backstory! 😱 _who is it? nobody knowssss_

“Welcome back to the land of the living. I see unfortunately the poison I’ve put in your bowl wasn’t enough to kill an overgrown rodent such as yourself.”

“You’d be a piss-poor murderer if you lured me all the way to your house just to kill me with a bowl of soggy noodles, Jefferson,” Alex grumbles as he drops onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

He should probably feel underdressed in his jeans, baggy t-shirt, and sneakers next to Jefferson’s suit pants and button up -complete with his damn tie and brown loafers, impeccable as always- but he can’t feel anything past how groggy his head is from the broken sleep he got the night before. The room felt stuffy, the bed too soft. The worst part, however, had been the _quiet._

Sleeping on top of a mountain was having the opposite effect on him than one would expect. Instead of relaxing him, the deafening absence of noise left him high strung and nervous. Alexander had found himself tossing and turning for the majority of the night, struggling to find a position that felt comfortable enough to drift off in. Sleep had finally blessed him around the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon, but it left him feeling worse than if he'd pulled an all-nighter.

Alex rubs at his pulsing temples in the hopes it will ease the pressure. “Just point me towards the coffee, please, I already got lost enough today trying to find my way down here in the first place.”

He’s left to gape like a fish as, against all odds, Jefferson takes pity on him and rises from his seat, opening a cabinet door to reveal a capsule coffee machine, pops one in and places a mug at the bottom. Alexander’s stunned even further when the man proceeds to pull out a full plate of scrambled eggs, pan-fried tomatoes and mushrooms from the microwave and places it in front of him.

Alexander looks at the plate, dumbfounded, then to Jefferson, then back to the plate. Yep. Still there. He slowly raises his head and looks at Jefferson once more to see the man roll his eyes, grab the fresh cup of coffee, and place it next to Alex’s plate. Jefferson sits back down silently, opening the newspaper he had been previously reading back up, ready to happily ignore Alexander as he eats.

Not willing to look this gift horse in the mouth, Alexander slowly digs into his plate. Already on the first bite he has to resist the impulse to moan at the heavenly, fluffy texture of the eggs.

Last night’s dinner had seen Alex sitting on his own, nursing a bowl of boxed mac and cheese Jefferson had thrown into the microwave for him. This is… something else. He takes a sip from his coffee, bitter without his usual added spoonful of sugar, but the easing effect it has on the fog in his brain was worth it. He doesn't know what he did to deserve such a hearty meal. Although the way Jefferson dismissed him yesterday was his signature move, Alex _had_ made the effort to swallow his pride and apologize for his share of their quarrel, so he guesses this was Jefferson's way to soothe his own conscience.

There’s a sound of rustling papers, and Alex just managed to get a glimpse of Jefferson giving him a pointed look over the top of the caving newspaper before the man straightens it back up.

“What?” Alex askes, deadpan.

Jefferson keeps his eyes firmly on the paper. “You’re not eating your mushrooms.”

Great, they’ve now moved to Jefferson scolding him over not eating everything on his plate. What even is his life anymore. “I don’t like mushrooms, they’re weird.”

Jefferson lets the spine of his newspaper fall again and fixes him with a disapproving glare, imitating the same deadpan voice Alexander used. “They’re weird?”

“Yeah.” So he doesn’t like mushrooms, sue him. “There’s this one mushroom that leaves pieces of itself in bugs and grows out of their heads consuming them from the inside, who wants to eat something like that?”

Jefferson’s expression conveys precisely how high he holds Alexander's opinion on mushrooms. Somewhere at the height of his ankles, clearly.

“Also,” Alex adds just for the hell of it, they were here to learn about each other after all, “I take my coffee with two sugars.”

_“You’re welcome, you ungracious brat.”_

An idea occurs to him then. “We should go grocery shopping.” Jefferson means to cut him off, but Alexander rushes to elaborate. “We want to learn stuff a couple would know about each other right? So, a couple would know what the other does or doesn't eat. It’s basic, but, well, it’s basic. If we want to make it as quick and as easy as possible, going to the shops would strengthen the memory and be easier to recall later, since it will be tied with an action.”

There's a twitch to Jefferson's eyebrow before he makes a scene of folding his newspaper in four, tossing it to the middle of the kitchen island. “Fine. But I’m not driving.”

“I don’t have a driver's license,” Alex admits. “Also, would you really want me driving your sports car?”

“Fine,” Jefferson relents, picking up the shades from yesterday and slipping them on. “I’ll be driving.”

Alex will take this win, small as it may be.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

They drive to Charlottesville, surprisingly enough managing to maintain a semi-civil conversation about the weather and the recent influx of merchandise and produce from overseas and its effect on the economy in the recent years, which manages to stay a conversation rather than escalate into an argument. They are not in agreement on the subject, far from it. Jefferson holds the opinion that local production and farming should maintain its monopoly on the market, while Alexander makes it a point to explain in length how an import-export trade with the rest of the world is inevitable with the direction humanity is taking, and that dictating that market before it cements is paramount.

Alexander entertains the thought that it is due to Jefferson not having his usual entourage following him around that the man feels more mellow, but deep down Alex can see that they are both endeavoring not to break whatever serenity has settled over them since this morning.

If they manage to keep this up, they might just make it work.

It is a short drive to the near Food Lion, a quarter of an hour or so. They head to the fruits and vegetables aisle first, lost as to how to begin. They end up just pointing at each and every fruit and articulating the first thing that comes to mind; Jefferson prefers Granny Smith apples, Alexander tells him he only eats them with peanut butter. Jefferson grabs a pack of peaches for their cart on the way, the ones with the fuzz. Alex tells him he’s weird. Jefferson tells him he’s an idiot.

Alex learns that Jefferson’s favorite berry is raspberries, that he hates mint and downright vetoes it from entering their shopping cart, that he never really liked to eat bananas but sometimes buys the banana flavored milk from the Chinese shop next to their work. Alex tells him he prefers green grapes to purple, that eggplants used to make him sick, that he prefers dry coconut to fresh. He tells him how he used to hate tomatoes, and pointedly doesn't tell him who changed his mind about them. Jefferson doesn’t need to know that. He’s not at that level of comfort yet.

Thinking about her is hard for him. So many mixed feelings still linger, about the woman who helped raise him for half of his life. Alex wonders what she would think of his decisions. Of him marrying Jefferson.

Abuela taught him that sometimes lying is essential. It’s what kept him in the country when he didn’t have his papers or a social security number. Would she agree with this, or think he is taking it a step too far? He will never know. Can only hope she doesn’t look down on him in pity.

Jefferson says nothing even as he noticed Alexander had grown quiet. It’s a small mercy, and yet so meaningful at the same time. Alex quickly shakes off the glum and bodily drags Jefferson to the fresh fish section of the deli.

“I never really cared much for fish,” Jefferson tells him but doesn’t stop Alex from tugging him along by his sleeve.

“Then I’m about to change your mind.” Alex throws Jefferson a wicked smile before moving to address the deli lady, asking for the fish he knows will work best with the dish in mind. It will be simple, but something he can’t screw up. He kind of hopes he will make a good impression on Jefferson with this meal. He never could resist a challenge. “You’ve made breakfast, so lunch will be my treat.”

Jefferson grumbles something about how it will really be dinner, not lunch. Which, of course, leads to them bickering until their order is ready.

Alex thanks the kind lady as she passes him his boxed pieces, already making his own little list in his head for anything else he will need to complete the recipe. They pick up some more random objects for their cart; eggs, flour, olive oil. Jefferson picks up baking soda, and Alexander takes them back to get cabbage and more bell peppers. Jefferson gives him a _look_ tm when he picks up tortillas, which he ignores. Let Jefferson think what he wants, Alex knows he’ll be eating his words later.

He stops as they pass next to the condoms and lube section, contemplating the packets. “What's your size?” Oh god. He did not just say that out loud.

Alexander might have been compelled to check on Jefferson's bent over -hyperventilating from laughing too hard- form, if he wasn’t so preoccupied with planning to throw himself in front of a bus. Do they sell tombstones in the gardening supply aisle? He should probably order it himself. If he’ll leave it to the hyenas he calls his friends to bury him, it would probably say something along the lines of ‘Here lies Alexander Hamilton, an Assbrain’. Should he also get some flowers arranged while he’s at it? That would be nice.

Jefferson straightens up after coughing for a good solid minute, wiping away tears from his face. “Oh, I’ve got to know how the process in your tiny brain has led to _that!_ ”

Alex scrambles for an excuse, but he really doesn't have one. “Yes, well, maybe we should buy condoms, you know, in case someone snooped to check if we’re actually sleeping together!” He knows the blush on his face has to be visible from the end of the aisle by this point.

He gets a gleeful, resigned look for his effort. “Why would we have condoms if we’re supposed to have been exclusive for long enough to be getting married?”

“Because cleanup is the devil?”

Alexander then, of course, recalls again exactly who it is he's talking to and curses himself once more for having no fucking brain to mouth filter.

Jefferson smirks and bumps him with an elbow. “Well, it’s nice to get affirmation I'm the top.”

“I’mma show you ‘top’, you small-dick-energy motherfucker...” Alex mutters to himself, not denying or confirming. He purposefully picks up a size 'small' packet to defiantly throw into their cart, ignoring Jefferson’s cackle.

They carry on through the aisles, Alexander still resembling a tomato while Jefferson occasionally snickers and repeats Alexander’s brilliant ‘ _what’s your size_ ’ zinger to himself. God, the man is never going to let him live this down.

It’s only when they reach the frozen foods section that some semblance of order is restored to the universe and they start insulting each other again.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? We are not buying the New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream, it’s like diabetes on a spoon.”

“Fine then mister ‘I got the taste buds of a five-year-old’. Just don’t tell me you honestly think vanilla is the best, you dull infant.”

“No, mint and chocolate chips is the best, but apparently _someone_ has a vendetta against mint!”

“Hamilton, you disgust me.”

.-.. .- ..-. .- -.-- . - - .

Alex commandeers control of the kitchen as soon as they arrive, exiling Jefferson to go do anything else while he works. He sets about making the salads first, stubbornly not calling Jefferson back in to tell him where the hell he keeps his _everything_ , instead opting to open and shut every cabinet and drawer in his search.

Jefferson's kitchen is quite organized, all things considered. And there are things to consider. The man has at least six different sets of entertainment dishes from what he comes across. Purple, and green, and yellow, floral and plain, all of the highest quality china. All undoubtedly cost more than his rent twice over. He finds the utensils, pans and bowls he needs with minimal effort, if with a lot of clunking and banging. Within an hour, he’s finished cooking and calls Jefferson back in to help set the table.

Jefferson sneaks a peek over his shoulder just as Alexander puts on the last touch in plating the dishes, a slice of lime. “Really? Fish tacos?“

“Just shut up and try one, and if you dare to try and eat this with a knife and fork I WILL hit you with this spatula.”

“Kinky,” Jefferson grumbles, scrunching up his nose. Alex snorts.

They sit down across from each other around the set kitchen island, Jefferson giving the fish taco the stink eye before making a sign of the cross and lifting one to his mouth, taking the smallest of bites. Alex bursts out laughing when Jefferson's eyes fly open as wide as satellite dishes.

“Well it aint bad,” the Virginian mumbles even as he proceeded to shove basically the entire taco into his mouth. “I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.”

Alex hums happily in agreement, giddy at snatching yet another win, whispering wistfully, “Abuela’s recipe always works.” Shit. He said that out loud. Fuck, why is he like this- _fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

Either Jefferson didn’t hear, or chose to ignore the comment. The man suddenly jumps up, proclaiming, “Oh! There's one more thing we are missing.”

Jefferson disappears into the main hall, only to reappear a few moments later holding a wine bottle in his hand. He snatches two wine glasses from the top cupboard, corkscrews the bottle open and sniffs the cork. Jefferson hums, satisfied, before filling their glasses halfway.

“This is a Chablis. It’ll go great with the greasiness of the fish and add to the zest of acidity,” he announces proudly before reclaiming his seat.

“I’ve... never really cared much for wine.” Alex accepts the glass he is handed and gives it a cautious swirl and sniff like he’s seen people do in the movies. Yep, smells like wine.

“Well then,” Jefferson smiles mischievously, “I’m about to change your mind.”

Alexander looks at his glass, still hesitant as he takes a tentative sip of the light colored liquid. It’s not as offensive as he anticipated. He takes a longer drink from it, then bites into his taco. His eyebrows fly up. Huh. That… actually does work well together.

Jefferson laughs, loud and open, swirling the wine in his glass and looking awfully pleased with himself.

Alex will give him this win, small as it may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do any of you remember that movie with the firefighters who faked a gay marriage to get healthcare for one of their kids? And they threw condoms in the trash to appear more 'gay'? So I imagine that Alex was thinking something along the lines of that when he made that comment XD
> 
> So I already wrote Abuela's character before listening to In The Heights. But remember that thing I said about how I wrote a fusion without knowing it? yeah. 
> 
> Also! I made a cute drabble of the scene where Alexander's 'assbrain' nickname came from to explain it! You can read it [Here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868721)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are getting longer now, yay~ 
> 
> Some Trigger Warnings! - Homophobia/Transphobia - talk about discrimination by the government and society. Again, this fic is reality-reliant. Some Racism, along the same lines.  
> Also, there's a bit of monologuing. I mean, come on. It's Jefferson and Hamilton, there was bound to be some eventually.

“Hamilton,” someone says, nudging at his shoulder insistently. “Hamilton, get up, you hermit.”

 _Go away_... Alexander groans a garbled objection and shoves his pillow over his head to block out the noise.

“ _Hamilton_.” There’s more shoving. “Get up, take a shower and come downstairs, you can't keep waking up at one in the afternoon.”

Is it too early in the morning to commit homicide? “Fuck off, Jefferson. Your house is awful, I hate you.”

“Now, now, Babydoll. That's no way to talk to your gracious host who’s taking you wine tasting today, at his own expense, might I add. So, say ‘ _thank you_ ’ nice and sweet for me, and now _up and at ‘em!_ ”

Alex bolts from under the pillow, his face aflame when Jefferson _slaps his ass_ through the covers before fleeing the room.

“DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING DEATHWISH?!”

His only answer is the roaring laughter coming from the general direction of the stairs.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

They eat breakfast (lunch) silently, Alexander staring daggers at Jefferson the entire time. A couple of days had passed since their shopping adventure, though they left him feeling perplexed.

Sunday morning Jefferson had gone to church, leaving Alexander to slumber in his bed past noon like the day before. On the one hand, _rude_. Even if he’s an atheist, he would have appreciated being given the benefit of the doubt. On the other… undoubtedly there would have been people there who have known Jefferson for years. Alexander’s still unsure how he would have been expected to act during such a meeting.

The rest of their time was spent mostly with each man keeping to himself. At first, Jefferson retreated to his study, working on his next article piece. Alexander had finished his own piece in record time, if with some curses at how there was only so much he could research for his next work from the comfort of the sofa in the library. Once he had abandoned his laptop back in his room, he all but forgot its existence as he started pulling and reading book after book from the man's vast collection of fantasy tales.

He would change his location every once in a while, subtly trying to pursue Jefferson in the hopes to engage him in conversation, but it was as though the man was keeping a careful distance between them those couple of days. Always fleeing one room to another after waiting the bare minimum of time necessary in Alexander’s presence to not be impolite, but not enough that a conversation could be struck. Jefferson had also taken to leaving Alexander food either in the fridge or microwave but never sticking around to eat together. Honestly, just overall avoiding Alex and sending him subdued sneers whenever he got too close.

Like some disgruntled cat.

And just like a cat, the one time he sticks around is when Alexander _wasn’t_ trying to get his attention, having abandoned his quest to quench his boredom by the countless books of the library, and had taken a stroll outside the mansion.

He walked aimlessly past the trees circling the parameter of the front yard, following in the direction of the setting sun, and happened upon a long strip of land that was divided into several vegetable gardens. Alex calmly walked the length of it, from one end to the other, in awe of the many different plants, occasionally throwing a glance at the fruit trees on the plane below and only feeling a little stupid for taking Jefferson grocery shopping when he literally could fill up a supermarket with his backyard.

Alexander walked for what felt like a whole hour, completing his tour of the vegetable gardens to ramble between the orchards, making an almost round trip of the house, ending at the back of it, and stepping clear of the trees into a kaleidoscopic flower garden. He had never seen such a variety of flowers at the same spot before. Not even in flower shops.

They were meticulously placed, so that as seasons changed the garden would not feel patchy or barren. Marigolds, Snapdragons, Texas Sage, Lavender and Rosemary amongst the countless others he could not name. He stopped before the red Hibiscus’ at the center left of the garden, a lump in his throat that had not been there a moment ago.

It was then that Jefferson found him, berating him once again for his tendency to vanish without notifying his host as for his whereabouts, ‘lest he break or trample something’. And isn’t that just ironic, coming from the man who has been actively avoiding him. Alex snarkily replied that he is a big boy and that if Jefferson is so concerned, he is welcome to tag along to make sure Alex isn’t causing any harm to his precious property.

To Alexander’s surprise, Jefferson did.

They walked together, at first stubbornly in silence, tension from their snarky jabs still remaining in the air until Jefferson made a comment about the origin of some of the trees they were passing by that led them to talk nonsense about plant care and general climate change, and the way it is addressed on both the national and global levels.

Alex was quite frankly in awe of the amount of information Jefferson has about plants. They still argued in intervals, but overall managed to contain their customary toxicity as they completed their round going back inside when darkness fell and actually had dinner together.

As the days go by, Alex finds he’s beginning to enjoy Jefferson's presence more than despise it.

The man was growing on him.

Like a rash.

And yet he still feels like there was something off about the way Jefferson was looking at him. Almost like Jefferson was as equally confused by him, as Alex is in return.

Once they’re done with their breakfast (lunch!) and cleaned up the dishes, Jefferson gives his -this time fitting, mind you- T-shirt and jeans a once-over, growls, “ _Oh absolutely not,_ ” and sends him back upstairs to change into his work suit.

Alexander shows up back at the entrance hall just to get another scandalized gawk.

“What now?!” Alex grunts and rolls his eyes. This what-did-he-get-wrong- _this-time_ game they’ve been playing is getting real old, real fast.

“Off.”

“E-excuse me?”

“ _OFF_.”

So Alex stands in the middle of the kitchen in his button down, briefs, and mid-calf crew socks, as Jefferson irons his pants and suit jacket, questioning his sanity.

Once back in his clothes, Jefferson walks in a circle around Alexander, then steps up to right the lapels on his suit, brushing away invisible flaws from his shoulders.

"Are you quite done?" Alex asks in the calmest voice he can muster. Which, is straining, at best.

"Not yet," Jefferson says, eyes still roaming over him, measuring him, before he steps away to his room and comes back with a handkerchief. It's a beautiful silk square, emerald green with black lace-like embroidery. He hasn't even touched it, and Alex knows it's of the highest quality, like everything else Jefferson owns. Alex can't bring himself to reject it as the man folds it into a perfect four-point fold before sticking it in Alexander's breast pocket, and has to admit that it does go well with his suit. "There," Jefferson steps back, nodding in approval, "Now we can go."

Ushered into the car, Alex huffs in irritation as he buckles his seatbelt. “Why are we going wine tasting, anyway? I told you it’s not my thing. Do you have to torture me so?”

“It’s not torture, it’s education. And it may not be your thing, but it is mine. Plus, it’s not going to kill you to learn something new.”

Alex raises his middle finger at him, to which Jefferson grumbles “ _Lovely_ ,” but goes on to start the car. Alex considers the matter closed.

They drive down the mountain with the top down, staying on the outskirts of the city. He secretly loves the warm wind whooshing around them, the smell of summer in his nose. If the nights weren’t so terrible, Alex could see himself getting used to this view. He’s always preferred the city, enjoyed living where the atmosphere outside matched his internal speeding thoughts, but there was no denying there’s something magical about the stretched horizon of the countryside.

A turn to a narrow dirt road a few miles later brings them in between two large vineyards, leading to a wide round building. The inside hall reminds Alexander of a wedding venue; round tables, albeit smaller than what you would see at a wedding, all elegantly styled and adorned with crisp, clean white tablecloths, silverware, and flowers. Most tables sat vacant or with only a few patrons, empty wine glasses or chilled bottles to share between them, passing around appetizers that varied from table to table. To him, the place gives off an awfully pompous sense. Somewhere to blow money on fancy things in front of fancy people.

Somewhere Jefferson would go.

Said man walks them to a door at the end of the hall that opens to an outside garden, furnished and designed similarly to the hall but for the addition of a couple of tiki bars. He leads them to sit down at the edge of one of the bars, already calling out to the bartender in French, rapidly talking about God knows what.

Someone he knows, Alex surmises.

He’s not sure why this annoys him so much. Jefferson was always borderline flirty with everyone. But trust Jefferson to slip into a language his company can’t understand, leaving him awkwardly sitting like a lost child.

The bartender laughs at whatever (terrible, Alex is sure) joke Jefferson cracked, placing two empty glasses, a jug, and a bucket in front of them before disappearing to presumably get their order.

Jefferson’s still smiling brightly when he turns to Alexander. “So, since it’s your first time here, I’m gonna talk you through it. I got us a tasting selection, we’ll start off light and work our way up. So just sit still, look pretty.”

“Aw, you think I look pretty.” Alex hopes he chokes again, that was fun.

Jefferson rolls his eyes and fills them both a glass of water each. “Now look, since you have been living under a rock ‘till now, turn your learning ears on and soak up. People know me here, and I’ll be damned if you make me look bad. You have one glass for water to rinse your mouth with, usually there's one you get your tastings poured into but at this establishment you will get a new glass for each wine, and that bucket is to toss out what you don’t care to finish off. You’re not expected to actually drink it all.”

“And if I want to drink it all?” Alex challenges.

Jefferson grins that damn patented devilish grin of his. “Then by all means, get wasted. I can’t wait to see what embarrassing admissions come out of your mouth when you’re drunk, it’s already a one man show even when you’re sober.”

Jefferson is spared from what was going to be a damn good comeback by the bartender’s return, carrying a long tray with two rows of glasses filled with various shades of white wine and placing it in between them. The bartender is then followed by a waiter, who places a small plate of cured salmon and garlic bread in front of Alexander, and a plate of sundried tomatoes, olive paste, and fresh bread in front of Jefferson.

Well, color him impressed. He feels pampered as fuck.

When they are once again left on their own Jefferson launches into his lecture, in full-on teacher mode. “So each wine differs from the other not just by the type of grape, but also by the region it’s grown in and it’s climate - mostly referred to as ‘Terroir’- and that can affect its taste. Also, the year it was harvested and the quality of distillation is very important. But that’s far too advanced for you, so we’ll stick to different types of grapes for now. “

Alexander really wants to punch him in his perfectly trimmed, stubbled jaw, but refrains.

Oblivious to Alexander’s inner malevolent dialogue, Jefferson points to each row of glasses in the line as he names them. “This one is a Chardonnay, this one is Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Blanc, and lastly Gewürztraminer. All locally sourced, of course.” He seemed quite proud of the fact.

Alex’s heard Jefferson speak with passion many times, but never with such delicacy. Almost like the wines were his children. He feels his anger softening. It’s almost… cute.

Well, Jefferson did say this is his thing. Far be it of Alexander to deny the man the pleasure of indulging in a harmless hobby that he loves.

He lets Jefferson's southern accent lull him as the man drawls on to his heart's content, interjecting to ask questions every so often, even if only to see Jefferson's eyes light up as he is given a new line of knowledge to show off.

For all of their differences, this is something Alexander understands completely. It’s very rare he can find a poor soul that is willing to sit and listen to him as he babbles on and on.

White wines turn into rosé, turn into reds. The reds are his favorites, Alex decides. Rich, more sweet than sour, drier, but in a pleasant sort of way. He’s far from a connoisseur, but he still tries his best to pick up the hidden notes of berries or green bell peppers he’s told he should be able to.

With the reds they get more bread and a large plate of cheese to split between them. Jefferson’s in the middle of animatedly explaining how Cabernet Sauvignon is actually Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc’s illegitimate son when Alexander notices it has already been almost three hours, and he is enjoying himself immensely.

He has to laugh at how less than a week ago he could have never imagined Jefferson and him managing to complete a conversation without literally throwing hands, let alone getting along like this, laughing and drinking together.

An awkward silence stretches, and Alexander looks over to Jefferson when he realises the man was no longer talking. The Virginian man sat quietly, a cryptic expression on his handsome face, swirling the red wine in his glass absentmindedly. Alex has no idea which grape it was. He’s lost count.

He also belatedly comes to the realisation that he might have forgotten at some point _not_ to down all the leftover wine. Oops.

“So,” Jefferson sets his glass down to rest his chin on his hand, “Again, not that I care, but where _are_ you from?”

"I- what?” Alexander blinks owlishly, at a loss due to the change in subject.

“When you came to me last week, I asked you if you were from Saint Croix like I thought. You've never answered,” Jefferson points out. Oh.

He'd really rather Jefferson keep talking desultory about wine. He takes a large gulp from the glass in his hand. “The Dominican Republic.”

Jefferson hums. “But you studied in Columbia, and what? Decided to stay?”

Well, he was bound to talk about it eventually, right?

Alex sighs. “I- uh… I applied for asylum on accounts of my sexuality.” He starts playing around with a cube of cheese on his plate, moving it side to side with his fork, fighting to keep the agitation from seeping into his voice, but it’s a losing battle. “LGBT folk are considered less than equal to straight, cis people in the Dominican. Private affairs are not illegal, but public displays of homosexuality are. And if you were to be exposed you could be beaten, extorted by the police, or even spend up to 2 years in jail.”

Alex starts to lightly stab at the poor cheese cube. “Trans people have it even worse. Healthcare turns its back on you as does the community, it's nearly impossible for them to find work.”

He finally skewers the cube, breaking it in two, and drops the fork to lay in his plate. He hates this subject. But once he gets going it’s like he can’t stop.

“You know, In the first constitution, they specifically wrote that marriage is between a man and a woman. And you'd think that would be enough. But no, ha!, no. they rewrote the constitution again 7 years ago. And you know what they changed? They included that same-sex marriage was strictly and by law _prohibited_. As if we needed the clarification!” Alexander runs a hand across his face in frustration. Was the world spinning already before? Or is this a new development? “I've known I'm attracted to men since I was very young. So the second I could, I applied for a visa as a political refugee. It wasn’t easy, I didn't have the funds to hire anyone to state my case, so I... represented myself, and wrote my own deliverance.”

Jefferson stays silent next to him, allowing the information to sink in.

Alex takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. "You know, I applied for law school because I wanted to make a difference in this country that I love and set store by. At least, that’s what I told myself when I started. And I believed in it. But… those were fancy words, far from reality where the way of life we've evolved for our nation is one where the law is a guide to ignore and an obstacle to sidestep at best.

“Hell, this is… this is exactly what I'm doing myself!” The laugh he lets out is ugly, heavy with irony. Alex buries the heels of his palms into his closed eyes, spots of white and red dancing across his eyelids. “I've become part of the problem I wanted to eradicate, where the lie and deception and the means are justified for the sake of the cause. Aren’t I just the bane of my very existence."

Alexander looks at his messy plate, the crumbled pieces of cheese offering no comment. He’s scared to look at Jefferson, scared of what he would find in the other man's gaze. Pity, disgust, maybe even disappointment. He feels like a disgrace. So he does what he knows best; he powers on. Hoping to bury the man in words before he picks at all the things Alex doesn’t say and asks questions.

"What does that even _mean_ , 'to make a difference'?” He mocks himself bitterly, pausing just long enough to down the rest of his glass. “I realised that standing in a closed court and persuading twelve random people on a case that in a week will be old news, where your words don't have any meaning or any reach beyond the room where it happened, was not going to make a difference. So when… u-hm…” he stutters for a moment, struggling to dance around Washington’s name, “I thought about it, really sat down and looked at what I want my impact on this country to represent, there was an almost plainly obvious way I could influence people. And that’s with writing. I have no guarantee anyone will take anything I write to heart, but instead of twelve jurors, my words can reach thousands. They will be written down and passed around. And maybe that’s enough.”

He shakes his head. God, he doesn’t think he had ever talked this much in Jefferson’s presence without the man interposing. Alex quickly moves the focus back to Jefferson, asking, “Why did you become a reporter? That was what you started as, right?”

Jefferson clears his throat. “It was. I... fell into it almost by accident.”

Alex looks up at that to see Jefferson staring once again into his glass of wine, rotating it slowly to and fro.

“Jemmy had always been the writer between us. My… My father wanted me to adhere to the family tradition of service and become a senator, and I didn’t feel like it. Jemmy thought I should write down my feelings to ‘find the proper words to express your contention’,” he air quotes and rolls his eyes, but there's an affectionate upturn to the corners of his lips as he mentions Madison.

“So I did. I liked it. Just expressing my opinion, without any interruptions or drawbacks.” Alex is _positive_ a glower is headed his way, but it never comes. “I had been heading for a career in politics ever since I could remember, so the switch to what is basically a political commentator was almost too easy.”

Jefferson was thinking of becoming a public representative? though, it did make sense with the way the man spoke and carried himself. He wonders what kind of political figure Jefferson might have been had he stayed on his original path.

They’re both startled from their melancholy state as a chipper voice cuts through their thought, coming from over Alexander's shoulder. He turns to see a short, plump, senior woman with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, her silvery white hair wrapped up in a tight bun at the top of her head. She is elegantly dressed, her vintage navy blue dress well-loved yet beautifully preserved, a warm looking yellow shawl draped across her shoulders and a small black purse hanging from her arm.

“Thomas, darling! It's so nice to see you. I hadn’t been able to catch you on Sunday’s Mass."

"Brenda!" Despite the sudden broad smile plastered on his face, there is a familiar twitch in Jefferson's eye that Alexander recognizes as distaste. Oh. It's nice to know he’s not the only one Jefferson looks at like that. "I am _terribly_ sorry, I must have missed you. How are the grandkids?"

"Oh, they are angels, each and every one of them. Kitty had just lost her first tooth the other day, she looked so proud!“ Brenda laughs, tone pleasant and warm, placing a hand over her heart, “But enough about me. Please, introduce me to the nice gentleman you are with.” She turns and gives Alexander a bright smile. “And who might you be, darling?"

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex smiles in kind and stretches out a hand for her to shake. “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

“Oh, pleasures all mine!” Brenda clasps his hand with both of hers, shaking it excitedly, beaming at him expectantly. “It's nice to see Thomas having a friend around besides James, those two used to get into so much trouble as kids, did you know?”

"Is that so? I had no idea! do tell." Jefferson kicks him in the shin. He pretends it doesn't hurt.

"Oh, the number of times I had to pull one or another from the chicken coop! They would always try and chase them around, I was scared the cocks would poke one of their eyes out!" Haha, cocks.

" _Brenda_ ," Jefferson huffs in what aims to be sickly sweet, but the warning is evident even to Alexander's socially-challenged ears.

"Hush, dear," Brenda dismisses him easily with a short elegant wave of her hand, but her smile remains kind. "Anyway, it’s a real shame Peter and Jane didn't appreciate little Thomas coming over too often. He was homeschooled this one, you know? And especially after he and the Lewis' boy, Meriwether-”

"OOOKAY! Brenda that’s quite enough, thanks, ha-ha." Jefferson's fake smile is cracking, a vein at his temple bulging with the strain to keep it. Alexander giggles at the absurdity. He’s never seen Jefferson flustered like this. "She can go on for days. But we really ought to get going, I think Hamilton here has had quite enough for today."

"Whaaat no! This is awesome!"

Brenda has a funny expression. Wine is fun, why doesn't he do this more often?

"Oh dear," Brenda says, "He does seem to be swaying in his seat. But of course! Poor darling, he is but skin and bones! Oh, Thomas,” she lays a hand on Jefferson’s arm, “Perhaps you two could come by tomorrow! We are hosting a baby shower for the Adams’. It’s a small party, but everyone would be so excited to see you."

Jefferson tries for another awkward smile, placing his own hand above Brenda’s before subtly removing it from his arm, hiding the act under a squeeze. "Perhaps we'll drop by then. Lovely to see you, Brenda, tell Tony I said hi. Ciao ciao!"

Goodbyes said, Jefferson pulls on his arm and it takes Alexander a try or two to get his feet to coordinate the way he wants them to. He bumps into Jefferson as they stagger together to the Mustang, a nice buzz singing in his veins. Everything’s kind of fuzzy, but without the denseness he is used to when properly drunk. Wine is so much better than beer, he sniggers. Maybe out loud. He doesn't know.

"Do we haaave to go?” Alex whines, “Oh, did we pay? I’m not sure if we paid. We gotta go back to pay. Brenda’s nice. Your hair smells nice," Alex moans into Jefferson's neck. Fuck, when did he get so close?

"Yes, lightweight, we paid." Jefferson huffs as he half carries Alexander, his arm tightening around his waist. "Now, don’t you go falling for that blue-eyed charm. That woman's a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and if she would have found out you and I are _engaged_ she'd be chasing us out with pitchforks."

Alex furrows his brows and pouts. “But- she seems so sweet.”

Jefferson opens Alexander’s door for him and all but forcefully shoves him into his seat, reaching for his seatbelt to tie him in and slapping his hands away when Alex tries to do it himself -‘cause he’s an adult, dammit. “Listen to me, numbskull. These are not your people, so don’t go assuming you know them.”

Well, that smarts.

He waits for Jefferson to slide into his own seat and buckle in, stewing on the inside, before hissing, “So just because I'm an immigrant they're not my people?”

Jefferson aggressively keys in the code to the car alarm system. “That is not what I meant, and you know it!”

“Do I? DO I, though?” Oh, now Alex is properly pissed. “You take every opportunity to make me feel beneath you, spitting at my being an immigrant like it’s some great damn joke you've just made. You and Madison, always conspiring like it's your goddamn job to make my life difficult, picking at every little frayed edge in my speech to check if I fall. I've worked too damn hard to be here to let assholes like you, like ' _your people_ ', get to me. I have every right to stand and live as they do; I've lived here basically my whole life!

“Here's the thing that the citizens of this country need to understand about us ‘immigrants’-” he balls his hands into fists in the hopes it will stop their shaking, “-We immigrants contribute so much to _their_ American dream. But they go and make us feel like a goddamn parasite instead of actually looking at us like human beings. It’s not about legal or illegal, it’s about compassion. Just because something is legal doesn’t make it right. Slavery was legal, was that right? Hell no! you of all people should know that! Mister ‘ _all men are created equal’_ , or are these fancy words only good as ‘Insta’ quotes to you?"

Alex sinks down low in his seat, glaring at the glove compartment, his chest heaving. He hates wine.

“Okay,” Jefferson says slowly, voice stone-cold as he pulls out of the parking lot. “No more alcohol for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, looks like someone touched a nerve.
> 
> Just to clarify, I don't hate the Dominican Republic, I've never been there, I'm only using what I learned online for the plot. I did do some research into the heavy topics when writing this fic, but mostly through Wikipedia and a few articles, so I'm sorry if there are any inaccuracies, let me know if there are or if I got something wrong. 
> 
> Also, have you guys noticed the only subject I really know anything about is wine, or am I successfully bullshiting my way through? lol
> 
> Come tell me in the comments or on Tumblr, @redredwhite ! literally, ask me anything, talk to me, I am dying for human interaction. 😅
> 
> Shout out to Brenda.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How... did this end up being 6k? Though I feel like it's my best-written chapter, so it's no surprise. Hold onto your hats, fellas.  
> WARNINGS! Homophobia! and a pinch of: Racism, Sexism. Conversion Therapy-> mentioned by name only. There's also a small panic attack, not very descriptive.
> 
> Side note, I didn't mention this because I wanted to keep their ages vague and up to the reader's choice, but Alexander is about twenty-eight years old. ('about' I say, as if I don't have everyone's exact birth year written down). If anyone wants to know Thomas's age follow the link in my endnotes, there will be more things I mention there :D
> 
> Massive thanks to MadDoe1138 from Discord for proofreading this one for me, they totally came to my rescue while DJ is on break cause of rl overload, even though it's not their fandom! I owe you one!  
> I am looking for another permanent Beta, if anyone would be willing I will appreciate it so much!~!~!  
> Now lets get to it!

The sight of Hamilton, a small bundle at the center of the bed, hair fanned into a dark halo around his head and softly drooling into his pillow as he snoozes well past the morning, has become something almost treasured, something he looks forward to, at the beginning of his day.

He is acting like a creep, he knows. Yet it doesn’t hold Thomas back from stopping and, dare he say, admiring Hamilton’s sleeping form. He looks much younger this way. His face is soft, instead of pinched like the times he yells and hisses through their office meetings, his jaw slack, his skin tone smooth and even without that hint of an embarrassed or fuming flush. Beautiful. Thomas hates how beautiful he is in these quiet moments. It’s a herculean effort to tear himself away.

If anything, Hamilton's habit of leaving his door completely open as he slept is a dead giveaway to how cuckoo the man is. Really, only psychopaths leave their door ajar during the night like this. It should be the first sign to deter Thomas, let him know to stay far, far away. Instead, it draws him closer.

It started when Thomas went to check on him that first day to make sure he didn’t suffocate or something when the man didn’t show up as the hours ticked by. Not that he was worried. Or anything. Hmph. He found Hamilton snoring softly on his back with his arm slung over his eyes to help keep the light out. Perhaps he should get better blinds for the upstairs bedrooms? But then again, no one’s slept there in years. The Madison's -the only guests he ever entertains- use the downstairs guest bedroom in their visits, and no one else graces the estate but the staff he hires to clean it, leaving the second floor to all but gather dust. He never planned for any of the upstairs bedrooms to be in use again after carving himself a new bedroom next to his study. But alas, nothing ever seems to go to plan where Hamilton is involved.

Afterward, It became a routine. Thomas would wake, shower, use his half dozen skin and hair care products, make breakfast, save a plate for the tramp he is entertaining in his house, and then sneak up to stare at Hamilton for a few moments from the safe distance of the hallway like some freak in a teenage drama.

He won't let himself linger, only indulging a few split seconds before he slinks back down to his bedroom or his study and patiently waits for Hamilton to wake on his own. He makes sure he’s broadcasting an air of indifference as the scoundrel stumbles to the kitchen, in hunt of his precious intake of black coffee while rubbing at his eyes. More than once Hamilton would still be half asleep and not paying attention to his surroundings, bump into the counter or a chair, and then stand glaring at it like it insulted his mother.

It’s especially difficult for him to keep his cool when Hamilton is drowsy like that. The urge to wrap him up and keep him almost insufferable.

The last couple of days Thomas lingers longer, berating himself profusely even as he doesn’t move away. It’s _ridiculous!_ He was being ridiculous! Barely a few days with Hamilton and he is going cuckoo himself. He can’t let this get out of hand. He ought to remember, this is an assignment. He’s on a mission.

 _‘Quit lying to yourself’_ , his heart whispers in a voice that sounds an awful lot like Jemmy’s.

He needs a heart transplant. Stat.

Hamilton lets out a soft moan and curls further into himself, tugging the blanket around him tighter. ~~Adorable~~. Thomas’s gut twists into a knot.

The previous day they shared a moment unlike any they’ve had before, he got to glimpse a side of the man he had never been privy to. He’d never seen Hamilton as vulnerable. Even when the man had asked Thomas to marry him, there were burning embers in his eyes, threatening to set his soul ablaze. But then again, at his apartment in D.C., the scene unfolded so quickly, and he had been caught so off guard, that it passed before he could grasp the depth of it. Come and gone, like a flurry. Typical Hamilton behavior; always in a rush, spitting his words before he tastes them. Yesterday… was more akin to the rising waters of a well whilst the rain pours, slowly building up to drown him.

Then _Brenda_ showed up and ruined whatever foundation they were building.

He successfully avoided her on Sunday, sneaking in and out of the church from the side door and sticking to the back row. Just enough to check ‘present’ on the roll call. The walls have eyes and ears, and Heaven forbid *someone* found out he was back in town and missed the Sunday mass. But of course, that hellhound found him sooner rather than _never_.

Thinking back on it now, Thomas still didn’t know what to make of Hamilton’s philippic there at the end. What he said had hurt. When they got back to the estate they separated to their respective rooms and neither spoke during dinner, as Hamilton still looked fairly drunk and pissy. The man wasn’t very forthcoming about his background, Thomas knew this from long before this trip, and so Thomas chose not to question and probe him lest Hamilton would lash out in an attempt to retreat or deflect, which from experience he knew would just turn into an argument. He wasn’t too blind to see they were both too fragile, too on edge, to start another fight, that if they did he would be powerless to stop it from escalating. Thomas is generally a patient man, but Hamilton has a talent for getting on his last nerve.

Another moan snaps him back to the present again.

Aight. Time to wake the hobo.

Thomas shoves at Hamilton's side with his foot none too gently, causing the man to let out a loud snort and spring up to lean on his elbows. He stares around in confusion before his eyes land on Thomas, squinting at him with his teeth bared like an angry raccoon before he flops down face first, groaning what Thomas can safely assume are curses into his sheets.

He smirks, kicking him once more for good measure. “Oh, come on. It isn’t even that early. Are you always such a log in the morning or is all this just for me?”

“You’re so vain,” Hamilton grumbles loud enough for the words to somewhat be decipherable.

Thomas shakes his head to himself and turns to pick up a random sock that had been thrown on top of the drawers, holding it between his forefinger and thumb but far away from his nose because _ew_. "Do you need an instruction manual on being human or something? Was one not provided for you when you rose out of the swamps, Hamilton?"

Hamilton flips him the bird, face still firmly planted into his pillow. "Oh, is that what those were for? I thought it was to dry my feet on."

Letting out a mocking ‘Ha’, Thomas goes to volley back, but their banter is cut short by a sudden ringing coming from Hamilton's open duffle bag on the floor. Or rather, from Hamilton's phone that’s lost somewhere in there. It’s quickly fished out by said man, who apparently does not wear trousers to bed like a sane person (again, why is Thomas even surprised?), but rather is only clad in very, _very_ , tight hip briefs. Thomas suddenly finds the opposite wall oh so interesting.

When the ringing doesn’t stop, Thomas peeks over curiously and resolutely does not let his eyes roam over Hamilton’s shapely little ass. “Well? Are you gonna pick it up or what?”

“It’s a private number…” Hamilton studies his phone, his brows furrowed, eyes dancing as if trying to find a hidden message on the bare screen.

“And? It’s probably just some telemarketer.”

“....Or a government office,” Hamilton says, chewing on his bottom lip. The ringing dies only to start again a few beats later. Hamilton sticks the phone into Thomas's hand. “Hold this for a second.”

Oh, he is two seconds from hitting Hamilton over the head, but the man is already out of arm's reach, busy bending down again - _good God_ , Thomas straightens and turns back around to face the wall- to fetch a pair of jeans from the floor. “Wha- what am I supposed to do with it?!”

“Answer it!” The brunet hops on one foot while working the other into the pant leg. “Just put it on speaker!”

 _This man_ … Thomas nearly drops the phone in his haste to press the call button, sure the person on the other end was going to hang up any second. The call connects, the voice on the other side a garbled mess as Thomas stressed to put it on speaker, fumbling with the small phone. Who even uses a non-smartphone these days!? Hamilton, evidently. Said man yells out a ‘Hello?’, now shimmying into the other pant leg.

"Mr… Hamilton?” a confused sounding man asks from the other side of the line.

Hamilton finally rights himself and snatches up the phone from Thomas’ hand. ”Yes,” it comes out rather muffled and he clears his throat, “Uh, sorry, but with whom am I speaking?”

There’s an answering clearing of a throat. “Mr. Hamilton, my name is David Gilbertson, I am calling from the USCIS immigration office. There has been some clash in between your documents, and I have been assigned to your case."

Hamilton freezes on the spot, his spine straightened as he shoots Thomas a slightly panicked look. Hamilton mouths a soundless _‘what do I do?!’_ to which Thomas replies with his own pantomime of _‘the fuck should I know?!’._

"Is it in regards to the documents my fiancé and I submitted last week?” is what the man comes up with, forced innocence grating on Thomas’ ears. He hopes it wasn’t as obvious over the line of the phone. “Did we not fill them correctly?"

"Mr. Hamilton, were you aware your request for a continuation of your current green card has been declined?"

Hamilton’s face now clearly spelled out -MAYDAY!- "I-I am sorry, can you repeat that?"

Shit. Thomas had hoped for a bit longer before immigration caught up to the discrepancy in their papers. Fuck.

Gilbertson however was like a shark that has caught the scent of fresh blood. "Mr. Hamilton, a letter has been sent to you due to your application having been denied. More than one actually."

Thomas is left confused when that sparks an excited jump in Hamilton. “Oh!” the man fakes an exclamation of hurtful surprise, reigning in whatever eureka moment ignited the bustling energy he was now projecting. "I'm sorry, I never received any such letter. Are you sure?"

Huh? Thomas blinks. And blinks again. Hamilton knew his visa had been canceled. He even stated he knew exactly why it was canceled, so why is he changing his story now? Surely he’s not dumb enough to outright _lie about physical, provable, evidence_ to an immigration officer or Thomas really will end up strangling him.

Gilbertson sounds rather amused by this, probably thinking the same thing Thomas was as he continued, "Yes. More than one letter has been sent to your address in New York-"

Hamilton mimics a rather impressive theatrical silent snapping action with his hand and cuts the man off. "I'm sorry... Mr. Gilbertson was it? I no longer live in New York, haven’t for almost five years now. I don't know which address exactly those letters were sent to, but I assure you I haven't received any." He was now trying his best to charade his way through an explanation that was entirely lost on Thomas.

"I see…” Gilbertson cleared his throat, changing tactics. “Mr. Hamilton, then if it is quite all right with you, I'd like for us to schedule an interview for you and your fiancé to attend. I'm sorry for being so blunt, but I'm afraid it is standard procedure when a... mix-up, such as this one happens. Protocol dictates for us to make sure your intentions are indeed pure and that you are not committing fraud and entering a sham marriage.”

Thomas already knows where Gilbertson is going to take this before he does. It’s a scare tactic, one he’s seen a million times before, using harsh words and vague implications to send one's intended target into a tailspin. “We will conduct an interview for each of you separately, to check of course that your answers match. We will then question your families, your co-workers, dig in deep to truly base your claims. And your answers better match. I shouldn’t have to tell you how much of a mess you will be in for lying to a federal agent, do I?”

Oof. Looks like it’s time to put his money where his mouth is.

Thomas makes a ‘give me’ motion, encouraging Hamilton through his mime-protests until Hamilton gives in and passes the phone over, mumbling to Gilbertson that his fiancé was now on the line.

The word sends a pump of adrenaline through his veins.

“Mr. Gilbertson,” Thomas effortlessly slips into the molasses-sweet persona he’s refined into an art years ago, specifically to deal with assholes like this one. “Thomas Jefferson, _Alexander’s_ fiancé. I’m sorry to grab the phone like this, but I couldn’t help but catch that last snippet. You seem to be scaring my darling quite a bit.” He deliberately chuckles for effect, same as someone who’s properly pissed would, to soften the bite of their words. “I wanted to assure you, sir, our devotion to each other is very much real. You see... the truth is, mister Gilbertson, Alexander and I…”

Thomas’s eyes habitually stray to Hamilton, taking in how he’s hanging on to his every word. His chest swells with pride. He maintains eye contact as he continues, “Alexander and I are just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love. But we did. I have no doubt we will put your mind at ease and pass those interviews with flying colors. How does next Tuesday at 11 a.m. sound?”

“Very well, Mr. Jefferson. Of course, I did not mean to insinuate your case is one of those, but protocol is protocol. If all goes well, you will be out of here and on your way in no time. Please, forgive my harshness.” He doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest.

Thomas breaks away from Hamilton’s doe eyes to punch the appointment details into his own phone's diary. He politely bids Mr. Gilbertson goodbye and swiftly ends the call, passing Hamilton his phone back. Hamilton seems slightly more at ease, but a worried pinch remains around his eyes.

“Come on,” Thomas sighs and moves towards the door. “Put a shirt on and come grab some breakfast. We better get on those INS questions we’ve been neglecting. Oh, come to think of it,” he smirks back at Hamilton over his shoulder, “I’m willing to bet 100 bucks there’s a question there about tattoos, so you’ll have to show me that one eventually.”

Just as he predicted, Hamilton’s entire face immediately flushes that delightful shade of red, his hand flying to his hipbone to cover the tips of red and green ink sticking out above the seam of his low-rise jeans.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

Once they are both downstairs Thomas serves them breakfast, handing Hamilton his designated plate, and a coffee in the mug Hamilton had adopted for himself. The man drinks eight cups of coffee a day, which explains _so_ much. Peculiarly, Hamilton will only use this particular mug, taking care to rinse it properly and hang it to dry after every use, even when he will be filling it back up in less than another hour. Then again, if Thomas had to sacrifice a mug from his collection, he’d rather it be this one. He's not even sure where Hamilton found it in the first place. He thought he destroyed it long ago.

It used to be Thomas’s favorite mug, light blue with feathery, yellow-tinted clouds, hand painted by an artist whose name Thomas couldn’t care to remember. It was a gift he got from his sister on one of his trips to France, back in the days they were close. Well, they were never close, per se, but… closer. Last he heard, she now lived on the periphery of Paris with her husband, two kids, a Pekingese, and a white picket fucking fence. He is a successful doctor, and she is his stay at home trophy wife. The picture-perfect family. It makes him sick.

He’s happy for her, but he’s also happy she is far, far away.

Hamilton’s deep in thought, holding his cup between his palms, warming them. Thomas observes him carefully. He looks better. Well rested, even in spite of the stressful air that had caught them, his hair cascading down to rest on his shoulders in a soft wave, his eyes alert and bright despite their faraway look, the crows feet beginning to form around them despite his young age not as deep as before. Taking a break from work was doing wonders for his complexion. He’s biting his lip, gnawing at it gently, moving his jaw around as if searching for the right words to give voice to his thoughts.

It’s a habit Thomas had only begun to pay attention to in those last few days, and not the only quirk he’s categorized while the man was being a goddamn nuisance in his house. He’s taken note of how Hamilton would mumble commentary to himself as he read, doing so even louder when he wrote, and the way he would start walking in circles while deep in thought, eyes vacant and cast to the floor, wearing invisible patterns into the library’s carpet.

The newest discovery was how open Hamilton’s expression seemed. Thomas had never seen this much sincerity shine in his eyes while at work. Sure, the man was an infinite pool of buzzing rage, always looking to stir up a fight. And when landing himself one, Hamilton would sneer and shout and curse his way through it, usually accompanied by rather expressive hand gestures. The dark pools of his eyes were always expressive, but they were always far more… guarded, in a sense.

Here he would let them freely roam and observe, taking in his surroundings with an easy, almost enchanted wonder, rather than trying to locate the next threat to his honor.

Being this close to him now, Thomas could see the exact moment Hamilton decided on his course of action, those eyes filling with purpose and finding their target in Thomas's own. “We should go to your neighbor’s party.”

His blood runs cold.

“I mean,” Hamilton continues, showing no indication that Thomas’s dread is at all evident to him. Good. “Gilbertson said he would ask people who knew us about our relationship. Hell, isn’t the whole point of us being here so that in case they decided to question our neighbors we wouldn’t have looked suspicious? What if he asks… what was her name? Glinda?”

“Brenda,” _She’s not the good witch, you idiot, she’s the murderous one from Wicked that’ll drop a house on you,_ “And he won’t. If our family’s don’t know, then there's no reason our neighbors should. And there's a difference between suddenly acting suspicious and asking random people with minimal connection to our lives.“

“I don’t have any family to tell,” Hamilton fires then glances away, sipping at his coffee, not divulging any more information on the topic. “Don’t you have a sister?”

 _Lafayette_ , Thomas is sure of it. There’s no other way Hamilton would know this if it wasn’t for that French blabbermouth. He likes his private life private and is going to have a very stern talk with that gossiping baguette. Though it’s its own strange comfort, that perhaps he isn’t the only creep in the room. Because as much as Laf likes to exchange dirty laundry, you’ll have to pay something in return. And the juicier the tea, the higher the price.

Thomas grits his teeth but knows there’s no way around the subject. “We haven’t spoken to each other in over seven years. And that is all we’ll say on the matter.”

He can see just how much Hamilton wants to ask, that it burns him to not be able to interrogate him further without Thomas rightfully asking him to spill about his own family in return. They strike a nonverbal truce to drop it altogether.

Hamilton clears his throat and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, returning to the subject at hand. “Well, we don’t have to tell anyone there about us. Just show up, so we’re seen together in public. Just in case.” He sticks out his bottom lip in a pout and it really shouldn’t be as cute as it is. ”It’s better safe than sorry. I’m worried about this Gilbertson guy, and we have no one backing our story right now. We need someone to vouch that we even existed in each other’s company, apart from at work.”

 _Apart from Washington_ , Thomas doesn't say. But he’s making a valid point. He hates it when Hamilton makes valid points. He just knows this is going to blow up in his face. Thomas exhales loudly and rubs at his temple, hoping against hope that he will not regret this decision. “Fine, but we’re in and out of there faster than you can say ‘Rochambeau’, got it?”

Hamilton’s smile is blinding. God, he hates him.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

He hasn’t traveled up this road in years. The trees are the same, the houses untouched, not much has changed in these areas besides the seasons. The nostalgia brings with it an ache to his chest. He is glad for growing up in the country and not in a city, running down the fields and breathing the fresh air the mountains provide instead of car fumes and carbon.

But there is a darkness that shadows these fond memories. There’s a reason, several of them, that as an adult he chose to trade away those open fields for the concrete jungle. Dangers lurk in the serenity of the countryside. The people raised here grew as hard and adamantine as the soil they worked, boxed into their small world and consolidated beliefs. It could never be a hearth for a spirit that wished to soar free. It would clip its wings and condemn it to a life of crawling injured on the ground to keep it in line.

The Johnson family's ranch rests at the edge of a lush meadow, a line of tulips decorating the entryway, with stables and hen houses at its back. Thomas parks next to the other trucks and utes out front and they both climb out, Hamilton bringing along with him the red wine Thomas had thrust into his hands when they buckled in to leave. “Can’t show up empty-handed”, he’d said.

They round the house, following the voices and laughter they could already hear coming from the grass on the side of it. Canopy gazebos have been pitched up to host the food buffet and a few sitting areas, the yard buzzing with clumps of people. Of course Brenda lied, and this was by no means a small gathering. Because of course.

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Thomas Jefferson!” Looks like he's been spotted. Awesome. Thomas leads Hamilton towards an older gentleman stretching his arms out, beer in one hand and a broad smile on his face, a baseball cap shading his eyes. “It’s been ages!”

Thomas musters up his social energy and plasters a reciprocating smile to return the greeting. “Indeed it has, Edmund,” he gives a short laugh, “You seem well. Have you lost weight?”

Edmund is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a big curly mustache and small beady eyes. They twinkle with glee at Thomas’s obvious toadying. “Ha! Always a flatterer! Hardly, between the beers and my wife's cooking? I feel like soon someone’s gonna ask how I got out of the pigpen!”

Anthony, the short scruffy man whom Edmund had been previously talking to joins in on their conversation. “Tommy boy, D.C. still treating you well, we hope? And who’s this friend you’ve brought with you?”

Thomas grabs Hamilton by the shoulder, encouraging him to step closer but firmly keeping him planted at a distance to his side. “Anthony, Edmund, this is Alexander Hamilton, we work together. He is our economics critic.” He squeezes Hamilton's shoulder before releasing it, letting the man exchange pleasantries as he surveys the rest of the yard. Thankfully, not too many people. And not too many familiar faces. Hopefully, they could escape soon.

“So Hamilton, What's it like working with this one? He gives you trouble?” Anthony asks jokingly.

“Nothing I can't handle, sir.” Hamilton smiles kindly, easing into the small talk. “Every day is more challenging than the last, but I wouldn't change a thing about it.”

Thomas almost snaps his neck in his speed to stare at Hamilton. He hopes his eyes weren’t bulging in their sockets from the absolute shock. Well, color him impressed, Hamilton can actually behave when he needs to.

Hamilton's answer delights both Edmund and Anthony, who lets out a loud belly laugh. “Good lad, this one! Tommy, you should bring your friends more often.”

“And drop by more often!” Edmund adds.

Yep. Time to flee. Thomas forces out a light laugh, thankfully catching sight of a familiar face that isn’t an eyesore to navigate around. He takes the wine bottle from Hamilton’s hand and raises it in a mock salute. “Well if you excuse us, gentlemen, I believe we have a lady to congratulate.”

Hamilton bids goodbye to the two men and hastily jogs after Thomas, voice hesitant as he whispers, “You don’t visit home once in a while?”

“Weren’t you the one that scolded me for being just as bad of a workaholic as you?” Thomas snaps back. The word ‘home’ doing funny things to his guts he was not going to dissect.

“Hmm. Yeah, I suppose you're right on that one,” Hamilton allows. “So, who were they?”

Thomas exhales a heavy breath through his nose. He already regrets caving in and bringing Hamilton here. “Anthony owns most of the orchards that supply the local market. Edmund owns several farms, mostly cattle and swine.” He takes a short detour, bringing them to stand on the side of the yard, away from prying ears. “We all come from long lines of farmers and landowners. Everyone here knows everyone. But everyone here _knows_ everyone.” Thomas pauses, checking if Hamilton had caught on to his meaning. Not really. He twists the wine bottle in his hands nervously and surveys the crowd, checking they’re not going to be disturbed before saying in a low warning tone, “Talking is dangerous, and you should really take a page out of Burr’s book for this one.”

“What do you mean?” Hamilton asks.

Thomas takes a step closer, bending his neck a little and briefly points out to two people standing far off to their right. “See that couple over there? Those are the Lewis’s, they got into financial trouble at a point, the husband has a huge gambling problem. His wife is the shareholder in their company, and she bails him out, but they are far from the lovey-dovey couple illusion they're projecting.” He points to another man on the other side from where they stand. “George Wythe, he's a local county judge, but don’t let his soft looking face fool you. He is susceptible to bribery, and discriminates left and right based on his own values whenever he finds an opening.”

Thomas straightens to look at Hamilton’s now stunned face as he adds, “The sheriff, thankfully not in attendance, once planted drugs on some other black kid that was seeing his daughter because he didn't want her to be in an interracial relationship. He got away with it, and everyone knows it, but denies ever hearing anything about it.”

He takes another look around, relocating Abigail, and whispers to Hamilton before making his way to her, “This is a snake den. So the less you talk, the better.”

Even months into the pregnancy, Abigail Adams is gorgeous in her light blue frilly dress. Her long black hair is braided in an elegant French braid, the end dropping to the front, delicate pearl earrings hanging from her lobes. She spots Thomas just a few steps away from reaching her, a smile lighting up her soft features. “Thomas! It's so nice to see you!”

Thomas smiles his first genuine smile of the day. “Abigail!” She giggles as he takes her hand in his and kisses her on both cheeks. “We heard congratulations were in order, you know I never miss a reason to celebrate.” He wiggles his eyebrows, showing off the bottle in his other hand.

“That I do.” She laughs, soft and melodic, like wind chimes, and it sets him at ease. It has been far too long since he had last sat in Abigail's splendid company. “Oh, Thomas, John is somewhere over there, he went to fetch some more of the non-alcoholic punch for me, never to be seen again.” A bit of a stretch, as Thomas can clearly see him several feet away, laughing with a group of men he wasn’t acquainted with. “Could you please give that to him and possibly fetch him along the way?”

“Oh…” Thomas deflates slightly and spares a glance at Hamilton. It is a bit of a risk, but he deems it safe enough, turning back to smile at Abigail. “Of course. For you, my dear, even up to half the kingdom." Abigail giggles again, and Thomas's smile spreads wider. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the back of her fingers, then brings them to touch at his chest, saying, "I will be right back.”

He leaves Hamilton under Abigail's supervision and quickly approaches the table surrounded by John Adams and his friends. John and he are not as close as Abigail was to him, but he’s a good man and easy to get along with. Diplomatic and articulate. He looks exactly the same as Thomas’s last seen him, if slightly drunk. The red flush of intoxication high on his round, pudgy cheeks, and his light copper hair oily and swept in a side part from messing with it.

Thomas claps John on his back to draw his attention, quickly exchanging greetings with the rest of the men while his eyes drift to check on Hamilton and Abigail. Hamilton’s face was sporting a dust of blush, his hand moving to swipe phantom hairs behind his ear at whatever Abigail had just said. He can’t hear them well enough from this distance to figure out what they were saying, but it appears pleasant enough. He lets himself relax into whatever story John’s friend... Benji? Benny? Whatever, was animatedly telling.

Until the wind carries a sickly sweet voice to his ears.

“Oh Abigail, isn't this wonderful? Look at those tiny armholes! Janet knit this, poor woman, she really shouldn’t be left alone like this, you know she needs a helper.”

In an instant he’s focusing hard right onto Brenda, now standing next to Abigail and Hamilton, holding a tiny baby jumper. Abigail replies something he can’t decipher. John’s saying something to him as well, trying to capture his attention, he pays it no mind. Brenda- he has no trouble hearing, voice always a decibel over everyone. It never fails to make his hairs stand on end.

“I'm just saying, someone should get her one of those _immigrant workers_ , you know, from the Philippines or somewhere. A man would be best; a woman isn't strong enough for that kind of lift work. Maybe if we found her a gay one, if he's gay he's not really a man, after all.”

_Oh no._

Hamilton bristles, and it does not go unnoticed by either party. Thomas drops John a hasty goodbye, starting for the group as now Hamilton’s, “Excuse my bluntness, ma’am, but you can’t say things like that,” carries to him as well.

“Oh please,” Brenda goes on, that god awful fake half-smile in place, “Those sodomites are sinners and nothing more, this is the only good thing that can come from a sick person like that. They should all get checked in the head or they will be the downfall of humanity, spreading their filth in this world. They should not be given the choice to sin.”

Thomas barely reaches them in time before Hamilton starts on a proper TedTalk. “No one chooses who they fall in love with, furthermore-” Hamilton manages to spit before Thomas’s hand latches in a death grip onto the back on his elbow, squeezing hard enough to make him _please fucking shut up._

“Brenda, I think your husband was looking for you, something about a casserole?” he blurts out, desperately trying to pull Hamilton behind him but only half succeeding. At the same time Abigail tries to salvage the situation saying, “Brenda, please, we have a guest here-”

But the woman is incorrigible, her hollow eyes boring into Hamilton’s, her latest prey, the craze in their depths shining through akin to a starved vulture. She hisses, “You are not honestly defending those parasites to our community, are you? No supporter of those sinners is allowed in my house and you are nothing but the devil's messenger if you do. Or are you one of those perverts too?”

He sees red.

He doesn’t know what compelled him to do it. He has better control than this, he does, but the words rise like fire in his throat, and the next thing Thomas knows, he’s bellowing from the very pit of his stomach.

“Brenda, this is my fiancé you are talking to, and you will speak to him with the respect that he deserves!”

For just a moment, there is dead silence around them. No one dares to move, Hell, he wasn’t sure if anyone dared to breathe. It’s like the world had completely frozen around him. All he knows is the rush of blood in his veins, his heartbeat in his ears, and Brenda's slowly widening ice-blue eyes.

“I- excuse me? I must have misheard, Thomas-”

“You heard me quite clearly, Brenda,” he growls, her name like poison on his tongue. “This is the man I am going to marry. And yet you wonder why I do not come to your house, when every single time you only twist any conversation into your own personal crusade.”

Her eyes. He will not cower before them. He refuses to, like so many times before. He will not-

“You- “ her voice takes on a low shrieking quality, “When Peter wanted to send you to conversion therapy, I defended you. I said there is no way sweet Thomas was an abomination!”

“Well,” Thomas enunciates bitterly, “Sorry for being such a damn disappointment.”

Her eyes search his own for the truth in his words. Go ahead, he thinks. She finds it. “And you dare to show up at this house, _at our church!”_ she screeches, the ice now completely saturating her voice. Thomas feels his heart seizing up as she hisses, _“Martha must be rolling around in her grave.”_

Abigail gasps from somewhere to his far left and tries once again to pull Brenda’s attention elsewhere with a weak call of her name, but it goes unnoticed, her cold eyes still drilling into his. “Get the hell off my property. You and your catamite are unwelcome here.”

“Gladly,” Thomas rumbles. “Alexander, we are leaving.”

He grabs Hamilton by his hand and pulls him along after him. He can't bear to look at him or at anyone else as they step through the small surrounding crowd back to his car, but he holds his head high and faces straight ahead as the people part to make way for them.

Abigail will try to call and apologize later, he knows. She will try, and he will send her calls straight to voicemail, because he has no idea how to even begin to process what he had just done.

He drops Hamilton's hand as soon as they stand clear off the lawn and on the gravel road. Thomas carefully opens the car and sits down, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn stark white compared to his skin. Tremors run up his legs, he can feel it all over, resonating through his bones. Everything is so much, it’s too much, but he can’t let himself break, can't let it take him under, not yet. They’re not safe yet. A tornado is wreaking havoc in his head and his heart is beating a million miles a minute, Hamilton silently slipping into his seat and buckling up the only thing he can process outside of his panic.

“Not. A word.”

Hamilton doesn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys forgive me for all the angst but that y'all liked this chapter!  
> As always, kudos and comments give me life and keep me going~~~~ Otherwise, I get into my head and think that everything I wrote is terrible and wanna trash the whole thing.
> 
> I don't know if the private number is something that happens in the US, but here it does, so whatever :D Also, there's a Jewish reference hidden in this chapter somewhere, have you noticed it? XD
> 
> Lastly, I feel like I should apologize to George Wythe's ghost. The guy was Jefferson's law mentor and T.Jeff held a lot of respect for him, also Jefferson's grandson was named after him. Sir, I didn't mean to make you evil! I'm sorry! I made pretty much everyone evil, if that makes you rest in peace better? 🙈
> 
> I have a lot more to say about this chapter, so if anyone is interested the rest can be found [Here!](https://redredwhite.tumblr.com/post/638166430185111552/show-chapter-archive) :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. I hope you guys are ready for this. I basically re-wrote the whole thing and went slightly darker than I expected.
> 
> WARNING! rating changed! (There will be smut, not in this chapter though) This one is a heavy one, you guys! I'm dropping the backstory's on y'all. Additional tags added! For this chapter in particular- Past Drug Addiction, Drinking, Past Childhood Trauma (I'm looking at you, Alexander), Past Character Deaths (nothing graphic, very brief, vague descriptions), Monologuing (I'm sorry in advance, this one is dialogue-heavy). TW- car crash, hurricane, sickness, drugs, alcohol, verbal abuse.  
> My advice? Bring tissues. 
> 
> MAD MAD THANKS to my amazing betas, @CallMeDJ, and my new amazing friend, @herewithstupid !!!! I'd be fucking lost without you!!

Jefferson is nowhere to be found. 

Alexander isn't too proud to admit that there are times he has all the social awareness of a brick. He was never the best at reading a room. Had been accused more than once of bulldozing over the feelings of others. 

Despite all that though, even _he_ knew Jefferson needed space. He couldn’t begin to fathom what the man is going through. So it takes Alexander a while to go looking for him in the first place.

When he woke, for the first time in days it was on his own, no Thomas-shaped alarm clock to shove him awake. He stayed in his bed, half buried in comforters, contemplating whether to go downstairs, dreading what he’d find. Hoping that they weren’t heading back to square one after managing to stay civil, and even having fun in each other’s company, these past few days. Though, something Abigail Adams said to him in their short chat, before everything went to shit, made him question where square one even was to begin with. 

_“It's so rare to see Thomas hanging around with someone who isn't Jemmy. You must be very special.”_

He laughed it off, embarrassed. ~~To anyone else~~ , they were just co-workers, and he told her as much. She had smiled at him kindly and said,

_“Hmm. I don’t know, I’ve known Thomas for a while. There’s something in the way he looks at you.”_

When he finally left his hideout and passed through the hall, he spotted Jefferson's bedroom door hanging ajar and took a quick snoop inside. Clothes were tossed around everywhere, sheets rumpled and shoved into a bundle at the edge of the bed without care. The closet had been almost completely emptied of its contents (likely where the scattered clothes had originated from), and the drawers of the nightstand left half-open. Though he knew it was the same room, it bore no resemblance to the neatly organized space he had glimpsed then they arrived.

He had made his way to the kitchen, sat down with a warm mug of coffee in his hand, and anxiously bounced his leg while waiting for Jefferson to show up

Minutes turn into hours as he waits, consulting the digital clock on the microwave every so often. It’s already getting late in the afternoon, and the more time passes, with Jefferson still M.I.A, the antsier he gets. 

His coffee had gone cold a while ago, his reflection in the dark liquid holding no answers to his inner turmoil though he stares at it anyway. Jefferson had just… come out? Did that count as coming out? He told Alex himself he wasn’t attracted to men. But Brenda hinted… well. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And all that in front of a crowd full of people he seems to detest.

It wasn’t his fault, Alex reminds himself. And yet if it wasn’t for him, if he hadn’t been there, none of that would have happened in the first place. He's sure of it. The second Brenda started spewing her vitriol, they were screwed. There wasn't a force on Earth that would have kept Alex from opening his mouth and letting her know _exactly_ how wrong she was. He could not let it slide. But... he never meant it to go this far.

 _‘Strictly business,’_ Jefferson had said. 

He feels so ashamed.

Only when the sun starts to set does he think of checking if the Mustang is in the driveway. It isn’t. Alexander’s chest constricts with worry, less that he had been left on his own, and more for Jefferson’s safety. The phantom pain of the man's grip on the back of his arm still remained, haunting him. He thinks of calling Jefferson, but dismisses the notion. Alex didn't want to force his company on the man- not in his undoubtedly unstable condition. 

Unease gnawing at his insides, Alexander paces from the hall to the parlor, to the kitchen and back, ending up at the library when his legs tingle from walking in circles, helpless as to what to do from here. His hands crave something to fiddle with, anything to do in this hollow window of nothing he felt encased in. Eyes darting across the room, he spots Jefferson’s study’s door hanging wide open. 

It’s a bad idea. Jefferson already scolded him for snooping in there once before. Will be pissed if he finds him in there again.

Alexander walks in anyway. 

He looks about, curiously studying the antiques and books on the shelves, lightly petting away the accumulated dust gathered on their surfaces. He reads the title of each of the old hardback’s as he goes, amazed at the different subjects Jefferson keeps in his private collection. Some about architecture, some agriculture, a little poetry, several about plant care and how to read the weather. He thinks of the garden outside. Did Jefferson tend to it himself?

The third bookcase in the row is almost overflowing with books about law and legislation. There's one book in the collection that’s protruding from the line, one he would recognize anywhere. Alexander picks up the familiar weight of the book, running a thumb over the indented title, cover noticeably free of dust compared to its brethren. Nostalgia washes over him as he opens The Federalist, each page filled with memories of working alongside Madison and John Jay, of long nights talking and writing about the state of their nation. And it seems they weren't the only ones. Flipping through the pages, he notes how many bear leftover marks from dog-ears, signifying it had been read and browsed through more than once, heedful remarks of both agreement and dispute scribbled with a pencil across several of the pages. Admiration and mindfulness are evident in each comment, and it leaves Alexander in awe. 

Everything he’s learned of the man since arriving at Monticello is at complete odds with how he viewed Jefferson before. The Virginian is still entitled and aristocratic, but Alexander gets to see a softer side of him here. A more attentive side. 

It suddenly hits him how much more _human_ Jefferson feels to him now, rather than the spewing serpent he made him out to be in his head. 

He shuts the book, about to return it back when a reflection of light shines into the corner of his eye. A ray of sun, bouncing off the gemstone at the center of the box on Jefferson’s desk, the one he saw on his first venture of the house. Its dancing flashes blind him as he moves closer, absentmindedly placing the book on the corner of the messy desk, transfixed by the box. He spares a glance at the hourglass, but picks the box up, opening its lid carefully, hinges creaking from disuse. Inside lay a broken thin silver chain necklace, a pendant in the shape of a crouching rabbit tied at its center, and two simple, gold wedding bands. His heart sinks. 

As though he’s been put under a spell, his hands seem to move with a mind of their own. Placing the box on top of The Federalist, he picks up the smaller of the two bands and slips it onto his ring finger. It’s an almost perfect fit, just big enough he could rotate it with ease. 

_“You take that off.”_

Alex jumps at the growled words- quickly scrambling to obey in terror and dropping the ring in his haste, not managing to land it in the box. It clatters on the floor as he’s flung back, a hand at his throat and his back crashing into the bookshelf. Something falls to the floor, breaking. Before him Thomas stands, wrath palpable and rolling off him in waves, teeth bared and his eyes wide in outrage, clutching a bottle in one hand as he pins Alexander with the other. He can smell the alcohol on his breath- and for a moment, Alex is terrified Thomas was going to hit him. His heart’s beating like a jackrabbit, his body torpid, barring his hyperventilating shallow breath, and shaking like a leaf. He swallows and it’s stunted by the hand on him. 

Thomas’s eyes narrow dangerously. The fingers around Alexander’s throat tighten a margin in warning, making a cold wave of panic shoot down his spine, but they release their hold on him a moment later. Thomas turns without another word, stumbling out of the study and into his bedroom. 

Alexander doesn’t dare move, too scared to even blink too long, staring blankly ahead, his breath seeming too loud in the now empty room. He waits for the door to slam shut, but the sound never comes. Taking a careful step forward on shaky legs, then another, Alex peeks into the taller man’s room to find he had not stayed there. 

He waits a few seconds more, listening carefully for any other sounds before gradually lowering himself to the floor, searching around for the dropped ring. The remains of a porcelain figurine that had rested on one of the shelves are sprinkled all around the wooden floor, its sharp pieces reaching as far as the carpet. He gingerly picks the ring up from where it had rolled to, under the chair at the corner, tremors still running all along his arms and to his hands. 

His knees threaten to buckle from under him as he walks, porcelain fractions cracking beneath his shoes, to lay the ring on its bed inside the box before shutting it. Alex swallows around the lump in his throat. 

Jefferson’s a lot stronger than he gave him credit for. 

His hands twitch, wanting to rub at where the man had held him by his neck, but he knows it won’t serve any purpose. 

Still shaken, Alexander starts to make his way to his room. He passes through the library, pausing when something at the back of his mind tells him he’d seen a clue in this room before. 

The pictures above the fireplace. 

He doesn’t dare pick up the framed picture, concluding that picking random objects in this house always ends badly for him. Instead he inches close to the picture to the side, the only portrait photo, spotting the rabbit pendant resting on its chain across the smiling woman’s neck. 

Guilt kicks him all at once. _‘Martha must be rolling in her grave’-_ the necklace, the rings, this woman… She’s not Jefferson’s sister. Jefferson had been married before. But Laf said... he thought- no. He didn’t. He assumed. Why did he assume? Jefferson’s agreement to their barter weighs even heavier now. God, Alex needed to find him, he needed to apologize. He’s surprised Jefferson hadn’t actually hit him when he found him with his _dead wife’s_ ring on his finger. He feels like he might be sick. 

He sends a small prayer up in thanks to whatever deity is watching over Jefferson when he spots the car outside, because at least the man hadn’t driven out again in his drunken state. He looks for him outside, in the kitchen, across the countless rooms of the first and second floors, before noticing a narrow flight of stairs at the other end of the hall on the second floor that leads further up. He climbs them two at a time and comes to a closed wooden door at their other end. It opens easily enough, releasing a weak groan, announcing his arrival. 

Jefferson sat at the opposite side of the round dome room, his head hanging low between his stretched arms, elbows resting on his bent knees. The bottle, not as empty as Alexander had first feared, gathers condensation at his side. A half-smoked cigarette burns in his hand, a collection of ash and two dead buds floating in a glass with a dash of water on the floor. Jefferson makes no move even as Alex sits next to him, keeping a bit of distance between them, mindful that the man might turn on him again. The smell of the cigarette burns at his nose. 

He’s struck suddenly with how, once again, he acted before thinking things through. What could he possibly say to the man now that he is up here? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to? I didn’t know? Jefferson would be right to snap at him for all of those. Laf once accused him of being absolutely dumb and yet smart at the same time. Assbrain, he had called him. Yeah, he feels like an assbrain right now. Before he can find the proper words, Jefferson spares him from his pathetic attempt of an apology.

“You must have figured out by now. Even you aren’t this stupid,” he says, voice dead and toneless, and Alex feels even more like an idiot.

“What...” he clears his throat, staring at his lap in shame, “What was she like?”

Jefferson lifts his head to stare off into nothing, dry tear tracks on his cheeks. “She was the most gentle soul you’d have ever met. Martha was my everything.” He takes a drag from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke out his nose. “She was kind. Beautiful, inside and out. I loved her more than anything in this world. She made me feel worthy of being loved. She... knew,” he pauses, appearing to gather courage, “She knew I was attracted to both men and women.”

Alexander nearly gets whiplash from snapping his head to stare at Jefferson. Did he just-?

“I felt like I couldn’t bear marrying her without letting her know that,” Jefferson murmurs, taking a quivering inhale before smiling a sad, twisted smile. “She was so kind about it, told me that she’s not scared, that she still loved me just as fiercely as before. That it didn’t change anything one bit. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.” Jefferson’s teeth are a white flash in the dark as he bares them, whole face contorting with pain. 

Pain, anger, and resentment. 

Not at Martha, no. At himself. 

It’s the same expression Alexander has seen in his own reflection countless times; _could have, should have, if only I’d have-_ the expression of knowing fate had taken the choice out of his hands, left him to deal with the pieces of himself in the aftermath of a disaster, tormenting himself with the roads not taken, with the forever unanswerable question; was there anything he could have done that would have changed the outcome. The _what-if’s_ of the butterfly effect. 

Half expecting a glare or an objection, Alexander reaches for the bottle between them cautiously, lets his hand hover in question before gripping it. When Jefferson doesn’t even so much as twitch in his direction, he lifts it to his lips, taking a long swig. 

Whisky. He guesses that will do. 

“Martha and Jemmy were the two good things I had here,” Jefferson says quietly, lifting his cigarette and sneering at its flaking ash as if it offended him personally. “My father was an asshole who demanded submission and perfection with an iron fist. If you think I’m a stuck-up snob, you would have outright combust from meeting him. He used to take me around with him on his campaign trails, so I would socialize with _‘proper people, and not that spineless half-wit whose company you keep’_ ,” he snarls, upper lip curling. “That’s what he used to call Jemmy.”

Alexander... doesn’t know what to say. Madison and Jefferson were as thick as thieves. They were inseparable. He always envied their friendship, often longing for a reality where he and John had not fucked everything up and could have something similar. He hated to think Jefferson’s own father threatened something so dear.

“ _Fucking_ Brenda.” Jefferson closes his eyes as they fill with emotion, inhaling and exhaling another hit, hand trembling with badly concealed resentment. ”Of course she’d play it off like she was a goddamn _martyr_. All she did was persuade him not to ship me off to conversion so she could do it herself. My father had suspected, but he never knew. I never admitted to anything. Still didn’t stop him from sending me to be brainwashed by that _old hag_ every Sunday, though.” 

Meeting his eyes over another drag, Jefferson lets the smoke out aside after a short hold in his chest. Alex hands him the bottle and he too takes a mouthful. “You know,” Jefferson says, facing forward once more, licking the remaining liquid off his lips, “T’s’why I hate cigars. He used to smoke them all the time in those high-hat clubs he dragged me to, and then he’d always pop in those _disgusting_ mint tablets that smelled even worse than the cigars.” He scrunched his nose in revulsion and shudders at the memory.

“But cigarettes are different?” Alex braves a question, hoping it won’t disturb the fragile atmosphere. 

Jefferson's face wrenches with pain again. He gulps down a significantly larger mouthful of whisky, and passes the bottle back, waiting expectedly for Alexander to drink.

 _This is a turning point_ , Alexander thinks. If he accepts, there’s no going back, the look in Jefferson’s eyes asserting that whatever he learns must stay between them. 

Alexander forces down an equal amount out of spite, the need to meet Jefferson toe to toe already ingrained into his DNA by now. There’s a twitch to Jefferson’s mouth that tells him the man was not unaware of that fact, but it never grows, expression remaining morbid across his handsome face. 

“Martha and I…” Jefferson sighs, then whispers, barely audible, “I was supposed to wear that tie on our wedding day.” 

Alex gasps softly, the twist in his chest from the words sudden and sharp as understanding washed over him. 

Jefferson flicks the cigarette with his thumb, ashing it into the glass below. “We were... We were in New York, we went to see a play. Martha loved them, I never cared much for theater,” he waves a hand in an afterthought and clears his throat. “It was raining on our way back, she was driving, and we were… we were just laughing at something, I can’t remember what. All I remember is her smiling face.” Jefferson’s mouth pulls again in something between a grimace and a smile, new tears in his faraway gaze. “I remember a car swerved into our lane, and she turned the wheel, and I- the next thing I knew I was in the hospital, calling out to her. Jemmy was sitting next to me, crying, and all I could say was _‘where is she, Jemmy? I gotta find her, she’s gonna be scared if I don’t find her’_.”

Jefferson runs his free hand through his curly hair, throat working around a swallow. “I was so out back then, from the drugs. I thought she was lost somewhere, and I had to get back to her. I’ve got a big ass scar on the back left side of my head from where a shard from the windshield cut me open,” he points a finger in a waved line above where the scar rested, unseen beneath the layers of hair, and finishes off his cigarette, putting it out in the murky watered glass. “I- um… They gave me medical-grade cannabis to smoke while I recovered, and I… things went downhill pretty fast, after that.” 

“It was so easy- just a couple of visits, a couple of ‘oh yeah it hurts here and here’, and I was handed a prescription from my doctors.” He huffs a hollow, humorless laugh. “Didn’t take me long until the prescriptions weren’t enough anymore. Whoever says marijuana isn’t addictive is full of crap,” his mouth warps with contempt, “It’s not the substance that you get addicted to. It’s the feeling- or lack thereof, more accurately. When I got high- it was all or nothing, y'know? If I could think, or string enough words together to make a sentence, it meant I wasn't high enough. I didn't think it was a problem, since it didn't affect my work. I'd stave it off enough to write and then would blow off for the rest of the week- ‘till I could make sure I couldn't think or feel until I _had_ to,” he says matter-of-factly. Then in a more grave tone, Jefferson adds, “I never wanted to stop. Never wanted to be... aware.”

Alex absorbs it all, in shock, unable to process all that Jefferson’s dropping on him. He takes another swig, the only response he could give, really. 

“Eventually the secret got out, Jemmy called in my sister and the two of them confronted me, trying to bring me to my senses,” Jefferson carries on. ”Elizabeth meant well, but she inherited the same huffishness as my father. She slandered Martha’s name left and right, said it was _Martha’s_ influence on my personality that made me like this, and a bunch of other nasty things I really don’t care to repeat. I never wanted to see her again after that.” He licks his lips, brows pinched and shaking his head. “Jemmy was the one t’bring me around. I... didn’t realise how much seeing me become a shell of who I was had hurt him. It was like a slap to the face, to have him looking at me with so much pain in his eyes when he said _‘I lost a friend that day too, you know. Please don't make me feel like I lost you both’_.” Jefferson’s eyes flicker briefly to Alexander’s. “I promised myself I'd never let him see me like that again.”

Jefferson pulls out the box of cigarettes from his back pocket, lighting one up before tucking the box back. “I smoke cigarettes when the cravings get too much. To resist temptation. Replacing one vice with another, if you will,” he wraps up, answering the original question, an air of finality to the statement, signaling the conversation closed.

They sit in silence, passing the bottle and drinking in solidarity, Jefferson finishing this and then another cigarette as time stretches on. Just existing in each other’s orbit for a while. 

Alexander isn’t sure exactly how much he’s drunk, but he can already tell it’s been a fair bit, for the numbing effect spreading through him. There's a delay from the moment he bites down on his lip until he feels the sting. The bottle finds its way into his hands again. 

He could stay quiet. _Should_ stay quiet. 

But while his head is telling him one thing, his heart is saying another.

It’s a slurred confession from Jefferson that is the deciding factor to the dilemma Alexander is battling with. 

Taking a deep wheezing breath, Jefferson chokes out, words strangulated, “I haven’t strayed off of a single glass of wine in _over five years._ ” He lets out an ugly, bitter laugh, eyes screwed shut, mouth twisting with another sneer. “ _Shit_.”

 _In another minute_ , Alexander whispers to himself, feeling the words and confessions stirring in his stomach, clawing their way up his throat. He’s never felt the need to share his own past before, had fended off anyone who even dared to ask for it. But now, it’s as though he won't be able to breathe if he doesn’t. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol, or Jefferson's display of trust, but it’s there, and it’s compelling. He rotates the bottle around a couple of times, tries to read the blurry words on the label, gives up when he doesn’t retain a single one. He steadies himself, bracing against the coming onslaught of emotions. 

“It’s a flower,” Alex whispers, proud at how he manages to keep his voice level. “My tattoo. It’s a hibiscus flower.” 

Jefferson stays quiet, understanding there is more to be said and giving Alexander the time to gather his own courage. Alex takes a deep breath in. 

“As a kid, my mom always tried to protect me from the poverty we lived in, from the destitution. We didn’t have much in the Dominican. Our house was a ratty old thing, with a small garden outside that was for necessity rather than beauty- but I distinctly remember the hibiscus bush, next to the fence. How much she loved it.” 

Longing pinches at his chest at the precious memory of that flower in his mother’s hands as she sticks it in his hair, picking another to place in her own so they would match. How she’d sacrifice a third, break it down, getting at a small sticky stem on the inside, sticking it on the tip of his nose while he squeals, wiggling in her lap, calling him her _‘pequeño Pinocho’_.

It’s the only memory he has where he can recall her silvery voice.

He starts picking at the side of the label with his nail, lifting the corner and smoothing it back down. “My mom worked hard to put food on the table. My father... was a gambling addict. He’d gamble all of our money away, would scream at us and threaten to take me away from her if she complained.” Alexander pauses, breathing in and out slowly. “She woke me up in the middle of the night one time- helped me pack a small bag, told me to be quiet and snuck us out and onto a boat. Brought me to Saint Croix, hoping to find us a better life away from my father. She got a job as a maid in a resort there. Paid under the counter, of course. We had no work rights on US territory, no papers.” He sniffles and rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. “I hated that place. She would come home with random bruises, always claiming she was fine,” he shakes his head, a miserable smile stretching his lips, “I was too young to understand back then.” 

Alex could already feel the threatening burn of tears, but he powers on with a shaky voice, knowing if he stopped, he’d lose his nerve completely. “A year later a hurricane hit the islands. It- it destroyed the entire resort. So many people drowned.” He shuts his eyes, internally recoiling from the images of floating, bloated, bodies in debris-filled waters dancing before his mind’s eye. “We were hiding in this half-broken room, trying to weather the worst of the storm. All I remember is the off-white, mud splashed walls and the stench in the air.” Christ, he will never be able to forget the way the smell made him choke. “We both got sick, something… something in the air, or the water. To this day I’m not entirely sure how it started, but it took almost three weeks until I wasn’t gurgling when I breathed.” 

He spares a fleeting glance at the ceiling. A total of three people in the world know how he ended up in the States. Jefferson will be making it four. _Another turning point,_ Alexander thinks to himself. _I’m choosing to trust you. I hope you understand how hard that is for me._

“Hiding away, we didn’t know humanitarian aid volunteers had arrived until one lady, she stumbled onto us.” 

Alexander rotates his head towards Jefferson, mouthing a silent ‘Abuela’, his voice momentarily failing him, the nerves getting to him when he sees the man’s shocked and sorrowful expression. 

He turns his attention back to the label on the bottle, unable to look Jefferson in the eye as he retells the tale. “It took a while before she managed to convince my mother that we will not be sent straight back to the Dominican if we accepted treatment. They put us in a tent, Abuela staying with us through the night.” 

He wants to get it all out in a rush, spit it out before he could think about regretting it, but has to take in a shaky breath and force down the bile rising in his throat. He never told anyone this next part, not exactly the way it happened. Not even John.

In a small voice, he continues. “I was too delirious at the time. I didn’t understand what they said, only that my mother was pleading with her for _something.”_ A full-body shudder passes through Alexander as he recalls how he clung to his mother, refusing to let go even as the doctor came and left, pressing his ear to her chest, feeling it rattle with every breath she took, with every word she exchanged with Abuela. It haunts him, the look on his mother’s face- the moment of realization, that her life was coming to an end, but that her son could be safe- before she had made Abuela _vow_ to protect him. It stands stark against the rest of his memories, sharpened after years being replayed over and over in his head. 

“Mom started pushing me away,” he says, desperately trying to keep his voice from cracking, “While Abuela pulled me into her arms, and I- didn’t get it. I didn’t understand what was happening, _I didn’t want_ to leave her side, but I... I blacked out. I woke up in the bowels of a ship heading away from the island, Abuela sitting next to me, quickly shushing me. I- she-” he whimpers and pulls too hard on the corner of the label, watching through the blur of the tears now running freely down his cheeks how it tears down the middle, half of it remaining stuck to the glass. “My mother was beyond saving and she knew it. She pleaded with Abuela to take me back with her and hide me. She died, sick and alone, so that I could have a better chance at life.” 

His hands are shaking, his skin crawling, his own faint voice calling out to his mother echoing in his ears, memories of thin arms reaching out, of endeavoring to stay awake while the dwindling oxygen in his lungs pulled him into darkness, weighing heavily on his chest. Alexander takes another mouthful of whisky, but it doesn’t help ease his constricting throat anymore. 

They resurface from time to time; on the nights the storms get too loud in his thin-walled apartment. On those nights he would blast music in his headphones and dive into every book, article, or journal he could get his hands on, desperate to shut off his overworking brain. Staying up all night and waving away the worried looks he’d receive the next day. 

He gets it, what Jefferson said about his need for a vice. The _despair_ that possessed him in those moments is so strong, he knew if he ever let himself fall down that rabbit hole he would never get out. He had always envied the man's strength— a part of himself deep down, if he admitted it, admired him for it. To know just how bottomless of a pit it was that Jefferson had clawed himself back up from, only made that reluctant admiration grow.

Alexander wipes at his eyes with the back of a hand. His vision’s swimming, and there’s a low hum pulsing in his skull; like tinnitus, if the screech were a baseline. He goes back to twisting the bottle in his hands. “Abuela took me in, but it took many, many months before I allowed myself to trust her.” He gives a small huff. “Of course, she wasn’t really my Abuela, Claudia, but that was what I called her. The age difference would have raised a few too many eyebrows if she tried to pass as my mother.” 

He tries to focus back on the world around him with a clearing of his throat, but he’s sucked into his past, into the good memories he has had with his Abuela, how she raised him, taught him to cook, to clean. Tutoring him at home in whatever hours she could between part-time nursing shifts at the local clinic, the one on the corner of Maria Hernandez Park, practicing his English with him until it was good enough to enroll him in school. Encouraging him to learn, to expand his horizons and his understanding of the world, spending many nights with him building them a fortress out of pillows and blankets, pouring over maps, saying _‘one day, pequeño pájaro, you will be strong enough to fly out of this nest and see the world. And the world?’_ she’d boop him on his nose, _‘Won’t know what hit it’_. He laughs despite himself, but it's flat. God, he misses her. Misses coming back from school to the smell of chicken fricasé, or picadillo. Even more than his mother, thinking about Abuela always brought on a wave of homesickness he could never hope to fill. 

“She was the only one I had growing up,” he says, taking another deep breath and wiping away the tears with the collar of his shirt. “I could never get too close to anyone for fear someone would take too much interest and start snooping. I remember how…when I wanted to apply for asylum, I was shaking so bad. I was so scared to tell her I was gay, and she just tousled my hair and said _‘as if I hadn’t known for years already, mijo. Really, is that what you take me for?_ ’” This time the laugh Alex lets out is genuine, two fresh fat tears roll down his face and he quickly rubs them away. He spares a look at Jefferson. The man sat hugging his knees to his chest. Almost an absurd look for a man of his height, but it makes something warm blossom in Alexander's chest. 

He takes another sip of whiskey. He feels better, like a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. His mind is floating, static running along his scalp. Everything is a bit blurry, but it’s the good kind. He wordlessly nudges at Jefferson's arm with the end of the bottle, who takes it and drinks his own mouthful, then places it aside. Probably a good call. They’re going to finish it at this rate. 

Alexander lets his head fall back with a thump against the wall, and it should be alarming in itself that he can’t really feel what should have been a painful smack, but he really couldn't care less. Just continues pouring his heart out, now on a roll, “We didn’t have the money to send me to law school, but with my newly legal status, securing a sponsor was a viable option. It was supposed to take a while, but almost overnight someone had picked my name up. I was ecstatic, of course, but Abuela threw a _fit_.” He laughs out loud, shaking his head as he fondly recalls the long string of curses as his Abuela waved around a spatula in the air, yelling about relentless, prideful men. “She knew my sponsor, but refused to tell me who it was.”

Alexander let his head lull forward again, staring at his hands, rubbing at the tips of his fingers. They feel funny. He probably should have stopped drinking three shots ago. He forces himself to calm down, not wanting to tear up again. So many times he wished he never moved in with John, that he stayed and had just a few more memories with his Abuela. 

“She died from heart failure, during my last year of uni. They told me it finally caught up with her in her sleep, that she went peacefully," Alex says. "The lady from the apartment upstairs was kind enough to arrange the funeral, I was in no state of mind to handle something like that. That’s where Washington approached me.” From the corner of his eye he can see Jefferson lift his head to quizzically glance at him, his brows furrowed. He fixes him with a half-smile. “I didn’t know this at the time, but Washington was the one to sponsor my studies.” 

Eyes widening until they're practically round, mouth gaping, Jefferson looks so ridiculous that Alex has to hold back a giggle despite the heaviness of their conversation. 

He looks away before he does something stupid. “I only found out later that Claudia's late son, Eduardo, served in the same unit as Washington. I'm a bit iffy on the details, but Eduardo was killed in action, taking a bullet meant for Washington. I guess... Washington always felt like he owed Abuela some sort of debt. He gave me his card that day, and told me to come find him after I graduated.” 

Moments tick by, and as the silence stretches too long Alex turns back to observe Jefferson. The man had on his weirdest expression yet, nose raised to one side, his eyebrows resembling a couple of twitching caterpillars. He can’t even tell what it’s trying to convey. 

Alex scoffs. “What the hell is that look for?” 

“Nothin’,” Jefferson answers too quickly, schooling his face, then gives him a sly smirk, “So the weird tension between you two ain’t ‘cause you’re sleeping with him?”

Alex can’t hold it, he sputters out a hysterical laugh, his ears and face burning. “What?! Why would you say that?! Oh my God, no!” 

“I’m just saying you guys are _off_.”

“I can’t believe you thought me and- _oh my God!_ ” He covers his face with his hands, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. 

Weirdly enough, it’s exactly the tension-breaker they needed, lifting them from the depressing mood into something more neutral. Though less heavy, Alexander’s head is still spinning, clearly from the alcohol. He needs to breathe some fresh air so bad. His ass is half asleep and feels like a mirror mold of the stone floor. 

“Come on,” Alex says as he stands up, stretching and nearly tripping over in the process. Oh man, he’s so drunk. “We gotta go out.” 

Jefferson groans in exasperation, making a show of stretching his legs forward. “Out _where_?”

“Out!” Alexander giggles, because fuck it, and pulls on Jefferson’s arm insistently until the man stood somewhat upright, leaning heavily on the wall for support, grumbling all the while about pesky immigrants imposing on his miserable existence. 

Rather than getting offended, Alex actually finds the display hilarious. He could see it now; the humor and the sarcastic undertone in Jefferson's voice. Had it always been there, and he just had too big of a chip on his shoulder to notice?

Descending down two flights of Monticello’s stairs was a feat even when sober, being drunk made it into a fumbling, messy journey full of stumbling. It's a wonder they make it down without crashing face-first into a wall or the floor, though Alex gives it his best shot when a couple of steps from the finish line his foot slips on the edge of a step. It would have sent him tumbling down the rest of the flight if not for the strong pull on the back of his shirt collar, Jefferson in his instinct to catch him overshooting and colliding with him onto the sidewall, barricading him against it with his body. 

There’s heavy breathing in Alexander’s ear, damp air against his lobe, his own breath coming in the form of soft gasps. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

Thomas is so close. Too close. Alex can't tell if the heartbeat he feels is coming from within or against his chest. Fingers dance across his side, sending vibrations in their wake, settling to clasp tightly across his hip, thumb digging hard into the bone. His own hands find no purchase on the smooth wall behind him, left to slide across it futilely, the sweat on his palm somewhat hindering the motion but not enough to give him a grip. Whatever semblance of an order he tries to sort his mind into is effectively erased with a graze of stubble across his neck, a whimper escaping before he could contain it, resonating around them. 

Jefferson draws back, glazed eyes searching in his. For what, Alex does not know. The gaze lowers to his lips, a hungry hum leaving the tall man. Only then does it register to Alexander that he’s biting into his lip. He slowly lets it slip from between his teeth, watching raptured as Jefferson's breath turns shallow and shaky. Those dark eyes snap back to his. Sharp, craving. 

Oh.

 _‘There’s something in the way he looks at you.’_

_Oh._

If he had to wager a guess as to how he would fall into a kiss with Thomas Jefferson (in the unlikely event the world was ending and that was the only way to save it) he would have told you it would be with the force and speed of a tsunami. Clashing, battling, like two cataclysms wearing at each other. 

Not this. They come together slowly, so slow the inches between them feel like miles. The first drag of soft lips against his is but a toe in the water, a fleeting touch that disappears not a moment later. Alex opens his eyes. When did he close them? His vision’s faded around the edges, shadowed by the darkness of the hall, obscured by Thomas’s hair. Their breath mingles, he darts his tongue out to wet dry lips, and all at once it’s like the dam breaks. The lips return against his, far more insistent, less controlled. Fierce. Thomas is all around him, a blurry vision, an intensity that threatens to consume him. His eyes flutter shut. He draws a sharp inhale of breath, the smell of cigarettes and cologne flooding his senses. 

A tongue slips into his mouth. He moans. His hands are taken in a gentle hold, fingers lace in his, bringing them up over his head. A strong thigh pushes up in between his legs, pushing him further up the wall, to the tips of his toes, the pressure against the arousal stirring in his pants making him throw his head back, gasping greedily for air. Teeth latch onto his throat, the hands detangle from his, coming around to grab at his ass, squeezing hard. Pleasure and pain mix in his already disoriented mind.

The next thing he knows, his back is against a soft surface. _A bed_. He doesn't know how they got there. It doesn't matter. He could be on the ceiling for all he cared, as long as the tongue sliding against his continues in its ministrations, making his toes curl. His own fingers find their way into dark curly hair, caressing, tugging. 

It all feels like a fevered dream, and he wants to keep floating forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me. (No, seriously, please do, I really am dying to know what you guys think of this one, I spent a lot of time on it)
> 
> Btw, there is another sidepiece up, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865451), a one-shot featuring a scene from Jefferson's past.  
> I have one more piece I'm working on, but it's not yet finished, that will give the background to Washington's story. So stay tuned for that :)
> 
> Next chapter will also take a bit more time! I decided to go in a slightly different direction than I initially wrote, so be patient with me, but I promise it will be worth your while! :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 Henlo, frens. Am back~  
> Confession time, here's what I've got- Okay, so, originally, I had a completely different chapter 10 written down, had almost finished writing the whole fic actually, but I'm enjoying this verse so much that I wanted to add a few more scenes in, and then it became far too long XD so I'm splitting it up into more chapters, hope you all forgive me! I promise it'll be worth it in the long run :D  
> Manny thanks to @Herewithstupid for going over this one, and being such an amazing friend and support!

_He won’t remember any of this. When he wakes up in the middle of the night to throw up, he’s too delirious to notice the insistent tugs that lead him to the bathroom, or the hands in his hair as they gently gather it up and out of the way, how he was guided to the sink to rinse his mouth, small soft encouragements hummed as his back was rubbed by a steady, warm hand. He would be ashamed in the morning if he’d remember how sweat was wiped from his forehead and a couple of pills were pressed against his lips, followed by a glass of cold water. How he had been pulled back down and into the bed, a warm body tucking in close behind as long limbs wrap to lock around him, providing him with a sense of security, of safety. Making him breathe out a soft sigh of contentment, despite the pounding in his head and the burn at his throat. But alcohol has always affected him this way, when he drank too much. He will not remember._

_Not the kind actions, nor how a hoarse question was whispered low into his ear._

_“For all you dig in claws, you’re still just a small, fragile kitten. Aren’t’cha, Babydoll?”_

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

Alexander wakes slowly, his stomach queasy, but not turning as he expected it to. He’s not entirely sober yet, and can still feel the alcohol in his system. Also, last he checked, there wasn’t supposed to be a Matrix-like lag to his eyesight.

Closing his eyes, he turns on his front, bringing the blanket up to cover his ears and burying his nose into the pillow. It smells weird; the lingering residue of a detergent in a scent he isn’t used to, alongside another smell that in the back of his mind he knows he’s supposed to recognize, but can’t exactly pinpoint. Not to mention, he doesn’t think he ever owned a set of silk sheets in his life.

Alexander’s breath hitches when it dawns on him just where he is.

He’s alone in Jefferson’s bed, but there’s an unmistakable slickness between his thighs, plus he doesn’t usually wear loose underwear- altogether, pretty damning evidence. He furrows his brows and bites his tongue. It still feels like lead in his mouth. The last thing he remembers is…

_“That’s it, Darlin’.” A wet tongue licks a long strip along his neck. Teeth bite down hard at his flesh, enough so that the pain registers through the haze clouding his brain. His eyes are screwed shut, his fingers digging into muscle, hands scrambling for purchase, for something solid to anchor himself to against the onslaught of every thrust. He cries out. Every slam hits at his prostate in unfaltering precision, sending sparks of pleasure rocking through his body, exhilaration washing over him in waves. The pressure against his perineum grows, firm and focused- a thumb, some part of him realizes- massaging in deliberate circles. Slick, squelching sounds go ignored as his wanton moans bounce off the walls-_

Alex closes his eyes and sinks his face further down to smother himself.

He slept with Thomas Jefferson.

_Oh God, he slept with Thomas Jefferson._

He can’t recall much of it, everything beyond the conversation they share in the dome room is a scrambled clutter in his mind. But from the bits and pieces he has, _it was good._ Damn, was it good. Tongue and hands and pleasure mixed with just the right amount of pain, being held down, just the way he likes.

Shame floods him. He _knows_ how he gets when he’s drunk and it’s that good- screaming like a damn whore to the high heavens, begging and scratching, and- oh hell, the last person he ever wanted to see him like that is his mortal enemy.

_His fiancé._

Alex lifts his head and counts the bark lines on the wooden headboard in the hope to stave off the panic that’s threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t plan for this. He doesn’t know what to do, or how he’s expected to act next to Thomas now. What does any of this _mean_ for them? It’s all so _sudden_. Zero to one hundred in less than six seconds. He doesn’t think even the Mustang drives that fast. But what would he know, he never owned a car anyway.

Hissing, Alex gets up on all fours, cautiously turns and sits back against the headboard, swallowing against bile swishing in him, and takes a look around through half-lidded eyes. The room is in much better shape than it had been yesterday. Most of the clothes had been folded and placed either back into the closet or on the far chair, the floor left bare, if not clean. The clock on the nightstand informs him that it is just past midday. Not as late as he’s come to make his norm while on this impromptu ‘vaycay’. He’s gotten incredibly sluggish, something he will have to face and rectify, sooner or later.

Getting used again to his habitual schedule of sleepless nights followed by early mornings is going to be a _pain_.

He is not looking forward to it.

Next to the clock are two blue pills and a glass of water, and if nothing else, he appreciated the fuck out of Jefferson for leaving him painkillers. Alexander reaches over too quickly and immediately regrets the motion, flinching back to rest against the headboard, eyes clenched and brows pinched from the acute pain slicing through his skull. A few sharp inhales later and he slowly tries again, moving as slow as a sloth. Alex swallows the Advil’s and throws the whole glass back in one go, squinting at the ceiling miserably.

About half an hour passes before Alexander deems himself solid enough to try and move. Jefferson has yet to make an appearance, and he can’t help but fret quietly at what the Virginian might be thinking.

The one thing that calms him is; even though he was drunk as a skunk the night before, Jefferson knew what he was doing. Well, perhaps that’s the wrong way to phrase it. He couldn’t tell how much either of them drank, but... Jefferson had _experience_ at what he was doing. _A lot_ of experience, from what little he remembers. So at least Alex doesn’t have to worry that Jefferson was going to slip into an existential crisis over sleeping with another man.

It raises so many other questions, but for now, there’s already too much on his plate as it is.

On shaky legs, Alex detangles himself from the smooth sheets and climbs out of the ridiculously large bed, wincing when his insides rumble at the movement, but he pushes through, knowing the further he walks the more it will settle. He finds his way to the ensuite, taking a moment to lean on the doorframe, panting softly to stabilize himself before making those last steps to the vanity. Reaching for the sink, Alex turns to the mirror cabinet and nearly screams at the sight that greets him. His hands fly up to hover next to his neck, fingers spasming.

_He’s going to KILL him!_

His entire neck is littered with dark purple bruises, there are teeth marks on his left shoulder, and a trail of hickies is going all the way down his chest and abdomen, disappearing below the elastic of his borrowed St. Patrick’s Day boxers, with an answering line of bruises following the curve of the inside of his thigh.

Altogether, he wouldn’t be out of place in a zombie casting tryout! Is he getting married to a fucking vampire? What the hell is this?!

Alex places his hands down to grip the cold marble top of the vanity, cursing under his breath.

Not enough he feels like death warmed over, he had to look the part, too.

Several deep breaths later, he composes himself and decides- Alright. First things first, wake up properly. Then he can start dealing with everything else.

Alexander washes his hands and face, and after a short debate with his zombie self in the mirror, drops his borrowed underwear to the floor and gets in the shower.

He turns, only to gawk incredulously at the product-stacked shelves. Shelves. Plural. An absolutely ridiculous and outrageous amount for one person to own, in Alex's humble opinion.

There are at least ten different hair products alone; shampoos, conditioners, hair masks, moisturizers, hair milk ( _hair milk?_ )- he doesn’t bother reading the rest of the labels. Alex picks up the first shampoo his hand is closest to and pops the cap to give it a sniff. Smells like Jefferson. ‘Boysenberry’, the label tells him. He has no idea what a _boysenberry_ even is, but it sure sounds fancy as fuck. So on brand, Alex thinks to himself, lips curving in a small smile. He lathers up his hair, amazed at how smoothly his fingers thread and run through the long strands.

Hmm. Perhaps there is something to be said for high-shelf care products.

Alexander cleans up swiftly but thoroughly, maybe playing a bit too long with the many products, leaving the shower smelling fruity and fresh. Then... Oh.

He refrains from slapping his forehead, he has enough bruises as it is.

He doesn’t know where Jefferson keeps his towels. Fuck.

“Here.”

Alexander jumps and cups his hands over himself as he glares at Jefferson, ready to snap that _this ‘scaring the living daylight out of him’ gig needs to stop-_ but the man has his head turned away, an expression of indifference on his face, holding out a towel for Alex to take.

What’s up with that?

He snatches the towel, wrapping it around himself. “Have you always been this much of a creep, or is this, like, a new development?”

Jefferson's eyes slide to his, but quickly move away again. Then he just… leaves. Promptly, without another word. Just- out the door, shutting it carefully after himself.

Alexander stands, water slowly dripping from his hair, blinking at the now vacant spot Jefferson had occupied with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Perhaps he _is_ having a mental breakdown?

Perhaps they both are.

Alex takes a long breath to steady himself.

He doesn’t know what to make of any of it. He thought he knew what he was doing, getting into this. But every day that passes, every interaction he and Thomas have, just brings with it more and more doubt.

Alexander laughs bitterly to himself. Here he was, thinking he knew anything about Thomas Jefferson. What a joke. The man has become a mystery. A puzzle. A maze that keeps changing. Just as Alex believes he recognizes the path he is on, the walls move and he’s back to guessing his footing, tip toeing through uncharted territory, scraping the clean walls for a clue or a sign, anything to give him direction.

Never in his life had he second guessed his own judgment as he does now.

And possibly, he considers, just maybe… that was the cause at the very root of this predicament.

From the moment they had met it had been a fight to see who could come out on top, who would outsmart the other. Never before had he let the man get a word in edgewise if he could help it, always needing to be one step ahead of him, never giving him any leeway or the time of day- summing him up as his enemy, a man he has despised since the beginning. Nothing more.

Try as he might, he can’t even recall _why_. It must have been something the Virginian had said. Alex is sure of it. But as he thinks back to their first meeting, clearly hears himself say, ‘ _Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton_ ’, can picture perfectly the other opening his mouth to speak- he draws nothing. All he knows is that it has been going downhill from there.

He had spent so long trying to prove himself an equal, he forgot to see the human man under the villainous caricature his subconscious had fabricated in Thomas’s image. He had never tried to see what they could become if they set aside their pride or the grievances caused by their personal triggers, and simply- let the other breathe.

Could they have gotten along, earlier on? Become friends? Or perhaps… more?

Alex stares at his reflection, at the bruises, skims the tips of his fingers over the mark on his shoulder. He feels warm and tingly inside, his mind reeling. Alexander wiggles his toes, then digs them into the bathroom mat to ground himself.

There are a hundred questions still left unanswered- a million things he has yet to learn about the paradox that is Thomas Jefferson. And yet despite all that, despite their history, his heart flutters in his chest as he realizes- he longs to uncover the sides of himself Thomas hides, to explore the possibilities of all they could accomplish together.

He wants to see desire shine in those dark eyes again.

He wants to see how far this could go.

With his mind made up, Alex marches back into Jefferson's room and up to the man's closet, flinging the doors wide open. He scans the clothes until he finds an old band t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, throws them on, and doesn’t bother with underwear. Alex dries his hair with the towel as well as he can while he goes back to the bathroom to ferret through the cabinet. He has no clue what any of the hair products are for, but he sniffs them all until he lands on one that smells vaguely familiar. It’s some sort of butter-like concoction without a label. Fuck it, he’s all about taking risks lately.

He smears some on his hair, dispersing it as evenly and as lightly as he can, catching the scent of it when he flips his hair to work on each side. Yep, it smells like Thomas now.

He forgoes the cologne, not wanting to make this too obvious, and puts his best game face on before stepping out barefoot and making his way into the kitchen.

The sight of Jefferson, sitting at the kitchen island and leisurely sipping at a cup of coffee while reading the paper, really shouldn’t be as charming as he finds it.

Alexander walks past, pointedly not paying him any attention, and goes about making his own cup of coffee, snatching his favorite mug from its semi-permanent spot on the drying rack and pops a capsule in. Alex bites his lip but doesn’t turn when he hears the chair behind him creaking with Jefferson's movement.

“You’re wearing my clothes.”

He tries his best not to snicker and keeps his tone flat. “How observant of you.”

“Allow me to rephrase; _why_ are you wearing my clothes?”

Alex stirs sugar into his cup, clinking his teaspoon extra loudly against the sides of his mug. “I wasn’t going to run back to my room like some psycho, clad only in a towel, but thanks for your concern.”

There’s no response. By the time Alex turns around with his cup of coffee in hand, Jefferson has fled the kitchen. His shoulders sag and he leans his weight back against the counter, chewing the inside of his cheek, and taps a finger against the rim of his mug.

Well, that led nowhere.

Not that he expected Jefferson to jump him or anything, but he was hoping for _some_ kind of a rise out of him.

Alexander grumbles to himself and reaches for the fridge door. Opening it, his chest gets all fuzzy again, his disappointment replaced with something lighter, warm and soft.

There's a toasted bagel with salmon, cream cheese, and green onion waiting for him on a cling-wrapped plate next to a glass of orange juice. He sits down to eat, still grumbling, but now hiding a goofy smile into his mug.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

Alexander lets Jefferson be for the time being, retreating to his own room to work, something he’s been outrageously neglecting this week. Angelica would be pleased to see him doing something else other than being firmly glued to his desk, typing furiously. Though, taking off a whole week to procrastinate is probably ~~definitely~~ not what she would have had in mind.

He throws himself into it, even when his head notifies him that _no, Alex, you can’t just ignore the fact you killed almost half of your brain cells last night with your excessive drinking_ , he stubbornly tries to power through, pacing the floor as he records notes on the market value changes he needs Lafayette to follow up on for him. Once that’s done he sits to write, hoping to spit out at least a couple of pages on his laptop, deleting and restarting twice before he gets into the swing of it. But even then, it doesn’t last long.

On every other paragraph he’s adjusting his sitting position, unable to fully relax, constantly losing focus but forcing himself to continue. He manages to occupy himself for maybe an hour or two before he’s holding his head in his hands, the hangover coming back to bite him at full force, head splitting under the pressure he put it through trying to _think_.

He needs a break. And a coffee.

Grunting with every step down the stairs, Alexander rubs at the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension bunched up in the muscles there. Fast-paced whispers of French can be heard coming from inside the kitchen, Thomas’s voice holding some clipped urgency. Alex sneaks slowly to stand at the entrance, peering in as Thomas continues to argue with whoever he’s talking to on the phone.

He doesn’t know almost any French, not nearly to get the full extent of what Thomas is upset over, but some of the words overlap enough with Spanish for him to catch a couple of words- _important, both, between us-_ , some phrases he knows from Laf- _I can’t, I don’t know, it’s not that simple._

_My darling_ and _Sex_ \- those, oh, those he needs no translation for.

Something ugly twists and burrows, seeking to put down roots in a neglected crack inside Alexander’s chest.

What if Thomas is already involved with someone else?

He doesn’t want to think about it, but once the idea starts to take form in his mind, it becomes more and more plausible-

_No_ , Alex furiously squashes that paranoid side of him before the thought can grow into a full conspiracy.

This is his anxiety talking, nothing more. It would make no sense for Thomas to risk so much for Alexander. They’re not close. Hell, they’re not even really friends! They’re… in a fake relationship, solely to help Alexander stay in the country.

Nothing more.

Thomas doesn’t want him, not the way Alexander does.

Last night had been a mere lapse in judgment, on both their parts.

Though the blame for this morning- that, was solely on Alexander.

How could he be so _stupid_ , to think that their drunken tumble meant anything to the Virginian. The man probably thought Alexander to be the biggest fool in the world, prancing about in his clothes. No wonder he ran away, probably too embarrassed on Alexander’s behalf to tell him just what ten kinds of a fool he is.

Alexander turns on his heels. He needs to get out of these damn clothes.

“Hey.”

He stops and looks back to find Thomas standing outside the kitchen entrance, face as blank and unreadable to Alexander as ever, turning his phone between his fingers with one hand, the other shoved into his pants pocket. Dark eyes skim over Alex, a small flat scoff escaping the man on an exhale.

“Change into something a bit more presentable. There’s something we need to sort out and I won’t have you looking like a penniless vagrant,” Thomas says, and Alexander's throat burns.

_How did he think, even for half a second, that this scumbag could like him back._

“Right,” Alexander hisses sourly, rejection still roiling around on his tongue. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Not even two steps made in the direction of the stairs and a hand latches onto his wrist. Alexander turns around on the spot, fully intending to bite Jefferson’s fucking _head off_ , when the man quickly blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

Taken aback, Alexander lets his mouth click shut and bites his tongue. He breaks out of the other’s hold and crosses his arms over his chest, patiently waiting as Thomas clears his throat. Thomas turns his head to the side, clearly fighting internally with himself. Over what, Alexander doesn’t know. But the turmoil is evident in those dark eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas repeats. “I’m taking my anger out on you, and that is unacceptable.”

That’s… wow.

“Just…” Thomas sticks both his hands into his pockets, looking dejected. “If you could please change into a dress shirt and some pants. Jeans will also do. Please.”

Alexander’s still seething on the inside, but he mumbles a quiet, “Sure. Whatever,” and quickly leaves to do what he was going to do anyway. Honestly, if they didn’t have anywhere to be he’d stay in these clothes now, _just because_ Thomas made it a fucking _command_ to go change.

But… there was something in the way Thomas said the word ‘please’. Almost defeated.

Alex stomps up to his room, but as he walks over the threshold, his anger starts to drain. Stepping further into the room, it’s already nothing but tar and cold coal.

His suit is where he left it, on the chair by the drawers, carefully draped over its back so it wouldn’t crease. Thomas took such care when ironing it, and he had not had the heart to ruin the man’s careful work by discarding the clothes aside like he usually does. The green pocket square still sticks out against the dark gray fabric of his jacket, tucked neatly into the breast pocket. Alexander runs his fingers over the tips of the folded silk.

He sighs and looks for the least rumpled dress shirt in his duffle bag.

.... . .- -.. .-.-.- ...- ... .-.-.- .... . .- .-. -

Shuffling into the car, Alexander battles with his seatbelt and settles low on his seat, planning to ignore Jefferson through the ride, but looks at his lap in surprise when a small stack of stapled papers lands on it.

The INS questions.

He glares up at Thomas as the tall man bends to climb into the car, carrying a disposable hot cup with a lid. Defiantly, Alex turns to the window.

A whiff of freshly made coffee is blown into his face, making him wiggle his nose. He side-eyes the man next to him.

Thomas is dangling the paper cup in front of his face, held up tight between the ends of long, perfectly-manicured fingers, one eyebrow raised in question. Gingerly, Alexander accepts the coffee and takes a tentative sip while Thomas busies himself with starting the car.

Sweetened with two teaspoons of sugar. Just the way he likes it.

_Why._

Why is Jefferson making it so hard for Alexander to hate him now.

“I know I’m being self-centered by asking this of you, but I’m… still beating myself up over yesterday,” Thomas says and tightens his grip over the steering wheel. “Could we… could we focus on the task at hand, for now, please?”

_Is it sleeping with me that you’re beating yourself over_ , Alexander wants to ask. But at the same time… that’s unfair of him.

Thomas had admitted to him that he essentially _relapsed._

On all accounts, it’s a far more serious issue than a drunken one night stand... Even if said hookup was with your nemesis. Alexander kind of wants to kick himself.

There he goes once again, making it all about himself, thoughtlessly forgetting that Thomas is really only human.

Alex takes a deep breath and sets his mind straight. Come on. Time to muster up some strength and push through. They’ll talk about the rest later. Right now, his priority is to make sure Thomas has time to process it all. It’s the least he could do.

“Do I at least get to know where we’re going?” he asks and works up a small, lopsided smile.

Hand fixed with the keys in the ignition, Thomas gapes back at him, shocked, and it makes the fake smile on Alex’s face grow ever so slightly genuine.

“Richmond,” Thomas says and starts the car, pulling out and away from the driveway. “There’s a jewelry store there that belongs to an old acquaintance of mine. We won’t be able to get a proper engagement ring here in Charlottesville.”

“Proper?” Alex repeats, but he drops it. Whatever. He’s never going to understand Thomas’s ridiculously high bar for literally everything. _Rich people._ “Wait, I thought you didn’t want to take any part in the whole wedding ‘kerfuffle’ bullshit?”

Thomas’s lips twitch. “Yeah, I don’t. But I forgot how clueless you are when I said that, and that obviously you have no idea what kind of ring you need to get.”

Alexander blinks. “There are different kinds of rings?”

Thomas smirks openly now. “I rest my case.”

“WHAT CASE?!”

Thomas sniggers at his offended yelp, and Alexander… he feels like maybe he could do this. If all he needs to do to set them back at ease is bicker like they always do, then bicker he shall. He pulls up the papers and snaps them upright in his lap.

Alright. Bring it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are the fuel that keeps me going, let me know what y'all think of this one haha 💕  
> Hopefully, the next chapter will be out by next weekend? or the following Monday? depending on how much work swamps me and my betas, but that's when I'm aiming for!


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